


Your Excuse (For A Lover)

by InTheLoft



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Developing Relationship, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, Slow Burn, The slowest, a little bit of magic, a lot of them wow, and most of Europe is mentioned at some point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheLoft/pseuds/InTheLoft
Summary: England cannot count the number of times he and France have fallen into bed after battles, angry and biting and clawing and snapping. France is a destructive tendency himself, composed of a million of them - smoke and wine and sex. Somehow, when he puts his hands on England’s waist, it does not burn away the anger anymore. Somewhere along the way, maybe in the trenches or maybe afterwards, in that dark little room in Paris, France’s kisses turned sweet again, gentle along the lines of England’s jaw, his neck, his arms.Or - France and England, 1066 to 1994.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in 2015, and I've spent the last two years writing and editing and deleting massive chunks of it and re-writing and here it is. The endnotes have a list of all the historical events I mentioned/bastardised. The title comes from Snowmine's song Let Me In. Most importantly!! Please be aware that:
> 
> \- This spans nearly ten centuries; there are a lot of wars mentioned, and references made to violent behaviour, major character deaths (most of them are temporary) and descriptions of injury. I don't think any of it is too graphic, but the section set in France, 1558 has a lot of blood in it.   
> \- In the section set in England, 1651, England has a disassociative episode and talks about attempted suicide and self-harm.   
> \- There are also inexplicit mentions of an unhealthy relationship (from France, 1558 to France, 1588) between England and Spain.

 

**England, Winter, 1066**

England cannot recall much about his early hundreds. What he knows, he knows in snatches, glimpses of moments that do not quite fit together to form a picture.

He remembers running across the country, in the summer sunlight and through the dark shadows of heavy woodland, from Scotland to Wales, and down to the tumbling sea in Cornwall. He remembers the people and the sound of their laughter around a fire and the smoke-filled halls and the thick mist in the mornings.

He remembers the bow and arrows and swords gifted to him, and he remembers learning to use them, the calluses on his fingers. He remembers the alphabet and learning it; his letters tremulous on thick parchment.

He remembers crouching under the leaves of a bush, in the rain, with the fairies above his head, and he remembers Norway bending down to see him, stepping lightly around tiny golden lights to join him in the undergrowth.

He remembers war, the silver sweep of a blade and the blood, after, and snow and sheets of ice and the world so quiet he could hear the water underneath. He remembers the eager, hungry sound of the invaders, of Norway and Denmark curved against each other, a bow and its string, and tales of foreign shores and foreign languages, of boys with hair like wheat and eyes like the sky. Boys like him, and Scotland and Ireland and Wales, and Norway and Denmark, and Sweden.  

Normandy is a little taller than England, his hair a paler blonde, his eyes very blue. He had swaggered off a boat from a Duchy across the sea and he had watched one of his men crown himself King in a church. His brother had called England a pagan, which was unfair and also wrong - England has been Catholic for hundreds of years, longer than any of his brothers, though never as fervently as Ireland.

England doesn’t particularly like Normandy, on principle, but he hates France. France is one of Normandy’s brothers. There is another one, apparently – Burgundy – Normandy had blown out his cheeks and waddled around in a mime. Normandy only speaks French, so England is having to learn, which is unfair as well. They’re _in_ England, and England shouldn’t have to speak somebody else’s language in his own country. Especially when it’s somebody like France’s language. France is stuck up and rude. He had said two things to England when he had been over for the coronation.

One –

“ _Your eyebrows are larger than your face.”_

Two –

“ _Goodbye, little savage. I hope we do not meet again soon.”_

England hadn’t spoken enough French to understand what was being said. The last thing had been accompanied by two sweeping kisses to his cheeks, but he wasn’t stupid, no matter what France thought. He’d memorised the sounds and he’d asked Normandy what they meant later. Normandy stood up straight and glided around when he was pretending to be France. He did France pretty well; he did Denmark pretty well too, banging around and making a lot of noise.

Normandy liked to wrestle. He jumped out at England from the most peculiar places - trees in the orchards, the top of castle walls, from passageways and behind doors and underneath the bed. He had once offered to show England how to break a man’s neck with just your feet - _“Denmark showed me, I can teach you_! - but Denmark had taught England the same thing.

England definitely hates France the most, and Denmark is still a pretty close second, but Normandy isn’t always terrible, although England still prefers Wales, even Norway (when he forgets about the invasions.) Normandy tells stories like Norway’s; he has a million stories about everything - about the stars and the sea, and the sea monsters. England had tried to tell him about the fairies, once, but Normandy had laughed and said, _no they’re not real. Things are only real if you can kill them._  
“Then we aren’t real,” England had said. He had killed Norway once, accidentally, so he knows they don’t die - or, at least, they don’t stay dead. Normandy had reached over and pinched him.  
“Alright then,” he had said. “Things are only real if you can hurt them.”

The fairies are real, England knows they are. He’s seen them, and his brothers can see them and Norway could too. Normandy always laughs when England mentions them though, he calls him a baby. That’s not fair either, because the ladies at William’s court say he looks eight years old, and Normandy’s only a few years older than he is.

“But you are a baby,” Normandy had said. “You have never even left your home.”  
“Why would I need to?” England had asked. Normandy made a face. It was the one he pulled when he was imitating King William - wise, with big eyes and his cheeks blown out for fat.   
“To see the world, to conquer,” he had said. “Where would you like to go?”

Normandy had talked about a boy who lives near France, tanned and sunny. There’s a wild boy in the East, he says, with hair like wheat; two very little boys, younger than England, in the South. England would like to visit all of their countries someday, but he knows where he would go first.

“I would invade France,” England says, and he recoils when Normandy punches him. “Ow!”  
“You can’t invade France,” Normandy says. “You’d lose. You have to start with Wales.”  
“But I like Wales,” England says.   
“Yes, but he’s closest. We can do it together, if you want. We can leave tomorrow.”  
“Tomorrow?” England says, scrunching his nose up. “But how would we get there?”  
“We can steal horses,” Normandy says. Normandy steals horses quite a lot. William calls him a little bandit and England always gets blamed. “Or are you scared, like a baby?”

So, tomorrow they steal horses and they go to the Marchlands, where Wales is living with some dragons. Normandy cannot see the dragons, although it is possible to hurt them, if you beat them with a stick. They don’t invade Wales, because Wales offers them some of the hare he cooked and when they curl up alongside each other in a little village on the border it’s warmer than when it’s just England and Normandy. 

* * *

 

**England, Spring, 1100**  

Normandy is in a foul temper. He hadn’t been allowed on the most recent campaign to the Holy Lands, because there was trouble with Wales, and then with Norway, and then people were invading him again. England hasn’t been allowed on Crusade at all - he’s scraping eleven years old now, and he’s sure there are eleven year olds fighting somewhere, but King Richard had shushed him when he had protested.

But England isn’t hiding because he’s afraid of Normandy’s temper.

He isn’t afraid of France, either, although that is why he is hiding. He doesn’t want to see France – he’s seen far too much of him since he arrived, and none of it has improved England’s opinion of him. France is still patronising and condescending. Yesterday, he had said,  
“ _It is your fault we lost your brother, you should have been firmer_.” As if England gets any say in the way Normandy’s Kings decide how to govern. They had underestimated Wales; Wales is feisty and flighty and he had fled to Scotland when the first invasions had begun. He’d written to _Norway_ , apparently, because Norway had sailed over a little while later, looking bored and stabbing people.

There is some sort of trouble going on with Normandy, which is a shame because England was beginning to like him. France had called him dangerous – England thinks he must mean politically; Normandy does have a worrying affinity for swinging an axe around but England wouldn’t call him _dangerous._ He’s still quite short, and France is an alright warrior. Although England is better - or would be, if anybody would let him get practice with something more substantial than a straw dummy.

Normandy is learning English. He doesn’t speak it very well, and he keeps slipping into French in the middle of sentences, but it’s a  nice effort on his part. England has taken to his Kings, too. They smile at him and ruffle his hair and the ladies coo over him when he visits. He still prefers running through his villages, through the forests, and he would like to be able to visit his brothers, but they are all at war with each other now. Wales is being horrible and England and Scotland never really got along anyway and Ireland’s too far away to just visit. Normandy is all England has, really.

France wants to take him away.

“He must be kept with me,” he insists. “It is safer for him with my people, in France. We can make sure he is not used for other people to invade.”  
“But it’s not that simple,” Normandy argued. “It’s not as if I can help people invading.”  
“People try to use you to get to me, a toehold in my country,” France says. He sweeps his arms out and he almost hits England in the head. England glowers at him. He knows that was intentional. “Grubby savages, those awful people in the North. This thing here.”  
“I am not a thing!” England says, and he slams his weight onto France’s foot. France shouts in pain and shoves England hard. “I am a country!” England yells.   
“You are an unruly little barbarian!” France shrieks.   
“You are a stupid cruel beast!” England screams. He pulls France’s hair and France scratches at his face and one of them accidentally hits Normandy so Normandy jumps in too, whirling fists and angry curses.   
“Why are you hitting me?” France shrieks, when Normandy punches him in the face.  
“I don’t know,” says Normandy, and so they all sit back (France elbows England in the mouth and England bites his hand). “What were we talking about?”  
“You need to come back to me,” France says. Normandy nods.  
“Oh,” he says. “I remember why I was hitting you now.”  
“Oh - stop!” France cries. He is strong enough to hold Normandy back. “Angleterre -”  
“You want my help now?” England says, folding his arms tight across his chest. “No I want Normandy to win.”  
“You runt!” France says. “You - Normandy, stop! Look what this oaf child is teaching you. Where is your grace, your manners, you have soot on your cheek and mud on your boots.”  
“Boots are meant for walking outside,” England snaps. “Where there is mud. Normandy is becoming a proper country, not a little indoor pet.”  
“I am not a pet!” France says. He pushes Normandy off entirely and he stands up, rises to full height. It is not all that impressive, but he _is_ taller than England, even when England stands on tip-toes. “I cannot have a conversation with you, you are a rat.”  
“Better a rat than a stupid prancing peacock. Rats are useful.”  
“They are dirty and they smell!”  
“The fairy queen uses them to drag her chariot!” England yells. Normandy groans. There’s a pause; France opened his mouth and then closed it again and now he looks a little confused.  
“What?” he says.

England kicks him in the shin and runs out.

He hides in the stable, where the weapons master has fixed up the straw dummy, and practices with a real broadsword. He has to keep his strokes light, or he’ll break the dummy. The sword’s so heavy that England’s arms are straining with the weight of it after only a few minutes: he leans it against the wall and goes to splash his face with water in the trough. One of the horses whinnies at him, irritably.

“Normandie thinks I am too cruel to you,” France says, from the door. England whirls around, spraying droplets everywhere. He’d deliberately chosen the stables because France cannot stand the smell of horses. “He says he considers us both family and does not like being asked to choose.”  
“ _I’m_ not asking him,” England points out. France seems to take this as an invitation to enter.  
“Are you really still practicing with a dummy?” he asks. England growls.   
“Only because Normandy doesn’t like to fight me anymore. He’s a bad loser.”

France smiles, a little sceptically, very patronising. “Loser?”  
“Yes,” England says, fiercely. “I’m a much better swordsman than him.”

He can see the nasty reply cross France’s face, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he picks up the hilt of the sword England was practicing with, and holds it out to him. “You won’t be if you only get a chance to fight straw men. Real men are much more difficult to win against.”

England takes the sword, frowning. France takes another one off the wall, swings it a few times, experimentally, definitely showing off. England scowls.   
“Alright, Angleterre,” he says. “What is my brother afraid of?”

Normandy is a good warrior, but he prefers the axe as a weapon. Swordfighting requires precision, careful thought – at least in a duel; Normandy assures England that swinging it around on a battlefield does the same amount of damage. Normandy isn’t precise, he’s reckless and thoughtless and prefers going for his opponent with force, rather than honed skill. But France – France is good. He disarms England quickly, but instead of gloating, motions for England to pick his sword up again.  
“Take stock of your opponent,” he says. “I’m taller and stronger – stay on the defensive for longer.”

He disarms England again, twice more, and each time motions for England to continue. The fourth time, England dodges his blade as it comes swinging towards his arm, parries the blow and – finally – knocks France’s sword from his hand. France looks faintly surprised.   
“Hm,” he says. “You aren’t _terrible_. I suppose.”  
“Neither are you,” England says, stiffly. “I _suppose_.”

France smiles.

* * *

 

**France, Spring, 1152**

England still hasn’t been allowed to go on Crusade. It’s unfair, because Normandy has, this time, and he returned sunburnt and with a new scar thick on his shoulder, where someone supposedly tried to hack his arm off.

Being allowed inside the Church for the wedding ceremony makes up for it slightly, although he’d rather have had the swords and the guts than being pressed close between Normandy and Normandy’s brother in a hot church, watching his King marry a _French_ Queen.

It’s satisfying, seeing how little France has changed in the years that have passed since their last meeting. England has shot upwards; he’s the same height as Normandy now, although Normandy still looks older. France wears his hair long, and curled. Without a beard he looks ridiculous, like one of the girls at court. He looks sixteen, maybe, a year older than Normandy and two years older than England, although England can scrape fifteen if he stands straight as possible and fixes his best bored expression onto his face (he borrowed it from Norway, and he thinks it works.)

France keeps looking down at England, loftily, and smirking. It’s annoying because it’s deliberate. Eleanor’s the most eligible woman in the _world_ , and France has been smug for weeks. He still looks like he’s doing England a favour, even though it’s _Henry_ who’ll make Eleanor Queen.

He’s managed to stay still through the whole ceremony as well. England’s back hurts from the effort of matching it. Normandy hasn’t bothered; he keeps shifting, and he’s no longer watching the priest but the rafters, like he’s trying to work out whether he could climb them.

It feels like hours until Henry and Eleanor are walking back towards the doors of the Church, agonisingly slowly. England squints at her and, yes, she’s very pretty, with straight features and big eyes. France looks smug when their eyes meet again. England scowls.

Outside the church, they linger. There’s no real reason for them to hurry back with the crowds and Normandy’s decided he wants to go and climb trees, or maybe find a river or a pool to bathe in, whatever happens first. So they set off around the building. It’s hot but England doesn’t want to strip his doublet and breeches off as quickly as Normandy does, so he drags himself along behind them, listening to them babble in French and dreaming of England and rain.

Then Normandy takes off with a screech of joy, through a gap in the trees, and vanishes from sight. France laughs, turning around to wait for England to catch up. England glares.   
“I told him there is a pool a little way off. He is very excitable.”  
“I know,” England says. “I live with him.”  
“He always has been,” France retorts. “I lived with him first.”

England gives him a look. This is a stupid argument. France coughs, a fake _ahem_.

“He kissed a serving-girl last night,” he says. “The pretty blonde one, do you recall? He is very pleased.”  
“I don’t see why,” England snaps. He was not sat beside Normandy and France - he was moved down the table to sit with the children, which was an obvious insult and someone should have complained. “It’s just a kiss.”  
“ _Non!_ ” says France. “It is never just a kiss. For a moment, it is just you and her in the world, your hearts beat as one, see.” He yanks England’s hand up and twines their fingers together so their pulses meet. France’s is going much faster than England’s; they’re out of time and it’s uncomfortable. He snatches his hand back, scowling. France laughs, tipping his head back for the sun. “I see you have never kissed a girl before, oui?”  
“Yes I have,” England says, fiercely, although it wasn’t much of a kiss, pretty boring, really. Anyway, girls and kissing have never really interested him; he grew up with Ireland, who might as well be a monk, and Scotland, who prefers rocks to people. Wales used to like songs and poetry, and England supposes he can see the appeal of the _idea_ of it – damsels and chivalry and _hearts beating as one_. But he has a country to love, people to protect; emotions are distractions from what really matters – the rivers and soil and blood of every Englishman that keeps England’s own heart beating. France is gazing dreamily off at the trees. England doesn’t think he would understand. “I suppose you’ve kissed girls,” he says.  
“Of course,” says France, easily. “And I have kissed boys.”  
“ _Boys_?”  
“Of course. It’s just the same as kissing girls. But they’re taller, and their hair doesn’t catch so.”  
“Yours would,” England mutters.  
“You wouldn’t be taller,” France retorts.  
“Maybe not if I was kissing _you_ ,” England snaps. “But if I was kissing _Normandy_ then I’d be taller, and I’ll be taller than you one day so –”  
“Well when you’re taller than me you can come and kiss me,” France coos.  
“I don’t want to _kiss_ you, don’t be disgusting.”  
“Why would it be disgusting to kiss me, Angleterre? Don’t you think I’m handsome?”  
“Don’t be stupid, you’re ugly as a horse.”  
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” says France, sadly. England snarls, to cover up the fact he feels a little bad, because France isn’t as ugly as a _horse_ , unless it was a pretty horse, like the one in the King’s stables, with the white mane. Of course, he’s not exactly _pretty_ , his personality undermines that, and boys can’t really be pretty anyway, unless they’re Norway, or that boy from the South, with the bright green eyes, so France is being ridiculous. Imagine wanting to _kiss –_

France’s mouth is very soft, and he’s surprisingly gentle. He waits a moment, perhaps he is waiting for England to push him away but England doesn’t so he puts his fingers through England’s hair, puts one arm around England’s waist to tug him closer. He mutters _ow_ when England steps on France’s toe but France pulled him and it’s not like England can see with his eyes closed - and even if they were open, France would be in the way, so really, it’s all France’s fault.

Which is all very true but sort of beside the point. The point is here, the place of contact, which is England’s mouth and the fact that he has realised, for the first time in his long life, that Denmark and Norway were not insane for kissing all the time because it is actually quite nice and France’s lips are firm, and he’s quite bossy, finding England’s hand and shoving it on his hip. England digs his nails in a little bit but France is so disgusting he makes a pleased little sound and tips England’s head up a little higher and then he _licks_ England’s lips.

England punches him in the stomach.

“What are you doing?” he demands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. France is doubled over, winded.   
“I was kissing you, you - you - savage.”  
“You _licked_ me. Who _licks_ people?”  
“That is how you kiss!” France says, glaring up at England through his hair.   
“It’s not how _I_ kiss.”  
“You don’t kiss, your half of the kiss was terrible, you’re lucky I even bothered trying to show you.”  
“At least I didn’t lick you!”  
“If you’d just opened your mouth!”  
“That’s even worse!” England says, shrilly. France straightens up, keeps a protective and unnecessary arm around his stomach.   
“I did not realise how uncivilised you were on that damp little isle.”  
“We are not uncivilised,” England protests. He draws himself up, balls his fists. “ _We_ do not _lick_ people.”  
“You are beyond helping,” France says. He pushes past England, marches down in the direction Normandy had taken. “I am never kissing you again,” he calls, over his shoulder. England pulls a face after him.  
“I don’t _want_ you to!” he says. Then, pitching his voice louder so France can still hear him, “I didn’t even want you to this time.”

France doesn’t reply.

England’s sure he heard. He’s pretty sure it was true.

* * *

 

**Normandy, Early Spring, 1203**

“Was it my brother?” Normandy asks. He pulls the cloth a little too tight around England’s arm. England squeaks. “Sorry.”

The wound isn’t a bad one, a slash on the arm, but it might get infected. Mostly, Normandy wants to be useful. He has spent most of the war lying on a bed by the coast, sweating and sobbing and begging them to stop.

France wants him back and England doesn’t want to let go. Beyond that are politics, Kings and soldiers, but here, in this little room without a fire, that’s what matters.

“Yes,” says England. “But you should see him. He was bleeding like Scotland, when you gutted him.”  
“You shouldn’t make an enemy of Scotland,” Normandy says. England rolls his eyes.  
“Scotland is already our enemy,” England points out. He adds, sullenly, “He’s never been our friend.”

England's fighting him right now, actually. Or, he would be - if he wasn’t here, fighting for Normandy.

 “I wish you’d stop fighting with your brothers,” says Normandy. He pulls the cloth a little too tight around England’s arm. England squeaks. “Sorry.”  
“Scotland started it,” says England. Actually, he thinks he started this one – it’s hard to keep track, he’s fighting with Wales as well as Scotland, and Norway’s been making trouble, and the humans are squabbling over possession of Normandy.  
“You ought to have finished it,” says Normandy. He looks uncannily like France when he gets all high and mighty.   
“That’s what I was trying to do,” England snaps. He tries to wrench his arm from Normandy’s grip. “I can do this myself.”  
“I’m almost done,” Normandy says, patiently. He blows his hair out of his eyes. “England, I’m only trying to help. If Scotland forms an alliance with somebody, or if he enlists someone’s help. Norway’s clearly willing to get involved and Scotland gets on with France. Which reminds me. Why doesn’t my brother like you?”  
“Why doesn’t _my_ brother like me?” England snaps. He wants to pull away and finish wrapping his injuries himself, but Normandy’s good at it and England tends to get impatient. “Because we all want to be safe and we keep fighting and France is stupid.”  
“France isn’t stupid,” Normandy says, loyally. England hates that; hates that Normandy is still loyal to France, when it’s France’s fault they’re fighting this war that’s hurting them all so badly. Mostly France’s fault, anyway. He doesn’t say that, because Normandy is increasingly passive on the subject of his brother, and England doesn’t want to have another argument where neither of them say what they mean. Normandy says _he’s my brother_ instead of _I’m scared of him_ and England says a lot of insulting things about what France resembles, instead of _I’m a little scared of him too_.  
“Are you done?”  he asks, instead.  
“Yes,” says Normandy. He gives England’s arm a gentle pat. “You always get yourself hurt.”  
“I don’t mean to.”  
“I know,” says Normandy. “Your ear’s bleeding again, turn around.”

England shuffles and he hears Normandy return the cloth to the bowl of tepid water beside them.  
“That doesn’t look very clean,” he says, glancing at it.  
“I said turn around,” says Normandy, shoving his shoulder. “When I go back to France - ”

The silence stretches. England isn’t looking but he can see Normandy’s face, the shock.

“If you go back to France,” he corrects, quietly.  
“If I go back to France,” Normandy repeats. “Who will do this for you?”  
“Me,” says England. “I don’t need other people to do things for me. You won’t go back to France.”  
“He’s my brother,” says Normandy. England hisses when the cloth touches the gash behind his ear. “Sorry. See, this is why you shouldn’t fight.”  
“I remember when you used to fight me all the time,” says England. “You used to keep an axe under your bed. You kept offering to wrestle.”  
“I’ve mellowed in my old age.”  
“Pfft,” says England. He draws a circle in the dust with his finger. It’s not very neat. He doesn’t like thinking about it, but sometimes he looks older than Normandy. He liked being taller - it gave him an edge when Normandy decided he wanted to fight somebody. But they’re supposed to grow up together. It feels a lot like England’s leaving Normandy behind.  
“Maybe you could visit,” Normandy offers.  
“I’d rather get into a hundred battles with Scotland than stay with France,” England snaps. The knee that is shoved into his back is definitely not an accident. “Sorry,” says England, after a while.   
“Whenever France writes to me, he always asks me to say hello to you,” Normandy says.  
“Yes, I know,” says England, because Normandy always reads those parts aloud, laughing.   
“You never tell me to say hello back.”  
“No, I don’t,” England agrees. “I know you put it in there anyway.”  
“Because you read my letters.”  
“Because you write your letters beside me, and you say the words aloud as you write, like a child.”  
“Don’t be mean to me just because you’re angry with Scotland,” says Normandy, peaceably. England remembers him in the eleventh century, walking on his hands and shouting so loud you could hear him for miles, swinging an axe like Denmark and floating along like France. He worries sometimes that he's found the problem - Normandy has always been too much like other people to be himself.  
“Are you done?” England asks.   
“Yes,” says Normandy. He’s putting the cloth back into the bowl to soak when England shuffles back round to give him a hug, buries his head against Normandy’s shoulder. Normandy tightens his arms around England’s waist. He smells like hay and salt water. England wants to say,  
“Promise you’ll stay. Promise you’ll come back, if you go.”

But he doesn’t, in case voicing his fears makes them come true. 

* * *

 

**France, Winter, 1259**

Paris is cold, and wet. It’s been raining ever since England got off the ship at Calais – large, fat droplets that leave icy tracks on England’s skin where they slip past his woollens.

Normandy and France are both waiting in the courtyard. When the carriage jolts to a stop, Normandy runs out to meet them. France remains beneath the rafters of the stables, arms crossed against the chill. He raises a hand in greeting, slightly absently; England ignores it, pointedly, swinging round to collide with Normandy, who grips him tight. They’re quickly soaked, and Normandy seems to have forgotten the English he picked up – he starts babbling in French,  
“ _How was your journey? Isn’t the weather terrible? Reminds me of John’s coronation, do you remember? Wasn’t that a bad sign!”_

He doesn’t wait for England’s reply, grabs his hand as soon as they’ve stepped back from each other, to drag him under the rafters beside France.   
“Bonjour,” France says.   
“Hello,” England says, coldly.  
“It will be nice when this war is over,” France says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. England’s not allowed to disagree; he doesn’t get an opinion, because it’s not up to him that the war’s finally coming to an end. He lost. France won.  
“How are your brothers?” Normandy asks, as England bristles. It’s a clear bid to distract him, but it works – mostly because it gives England an excuse to ignore France and talk to Normandy.

He’s been getting on better with his brothers, although tensions are still high. It’s to be expected with Scotland – tensions have never been, well, low – but Wales’s cold, distant manner is a little upsetting. Mostly, it serves to remind England that he’s _lonely_ without Normandy. There isn’t anybody who he can talk to, nobody who understands.

He’s still describing his most recent visit to Wales as they’re ushered into the warmth of the palace, and plied with goblets of rich red wine.

“Which one is Wales?” France asks, inserting himself into the conversation, uninvited. England glowers.  
“You know,” Normandy says. “The _really_ short one.”  
“He’s taller than you,” England says. Normandy frowns.  
“Really?” He glances up at his brother. “I haven’t seen him in _ages_.”

“That is not entirely my fault, Normandie,” France says, smoothly.   
“Actually,” England says. “You’re the one who dragged Normandy back here.”  
“You’re the one who made it impossible for me to allow him to visit. You would have kept him.”  
“You _stole_ him.”  
“I’m right here,” Normandy says. “And I wish everyone would stop treating me like a bartering tool.”

France meets England’s eyes, a challenge.   
“Perhaps after Angleterre signs the peace, you could visit his grubby little country. For a while.”

“It’s not _grubby_ ,” England snaps. Normandy frowns at him, disappointed, but that’s not fair – it’s easy for France to be gracious. He’s won. England would quite like to punch France in the face, but he doesn’t think Henry would be very happy, and the last time Henry lost his temper, England couldn’t sit down comfortably for days.   
“Oh,” says France. “You have cleaned it up since I was last visiting, then?”  
“You’d be surprised about how much brighter everything looked once you had left.”  
“Brighter still if you trimmed those monstrosities you have instead of eyebrows.”  
“You would know all about trimming, of course. I’m surprised you can see behind all that hair.”  
“It’s fashionable, cher, although I can see why you would have missed that. Are those the same clothes you were wearing when we conquered you?”  
“I have more important things to think about than clothes.”  
“Ah,” says France, nodding. “Like winning wars? Oh – wait, my mistake.”

England opens his mouth, furious, but he’s cut off by Normandy stepping between them.

It’s a surprise to realise he wasn’t there all along – England hadn’t noticed moving, but suddenly he and France were standing a lot closer. They’d been keeping their voices light, but both of them had been getting louder and louder, and the French court and the English ambassadors were beginning to turn their heads.

“There was a glorious hunt yesterday,” Normandy says, and launches into a description of a boar that has, apparently, been evading the court for the best part of the season. France wanders off to stand beside his King, but England is watching him from the corner of his eye – out of habit, born from the battlefields he’s spent the last few decades on – and he ends up closer to the wall than the King, making a show of preoccupation with a tapestry.

England isn’t prone to extended bouts of introspection. Actually, he actively tries to avoid extended bouts of introspection, but sometimes there are flashes of insight. This time, he thinks, in a voice that sounds uncannily like Wales, _maybe France is lonely too._

Except France lives with his brothers, so he can’t be as lonely as England is, all alone in London.

Then again, England knows better than anyone that the relationships their kind form with their siblings is always straining at the seams, always labouring under the awareness of borders, of grudges that outlive Kings and Queens, of _conquer or be conquered._

France glances over, as Normandy’s story about a boar he had seen in the woods reaches its shrill climax. He catches England’s gaze, and holds it. He is inscrutable; unlike Normandy, or Wales, or Scotland, his thoughts remain under the surface. His brow does not furrow, he does not narrow his eyes or purse his lips. And England doesn’t understand him, at all. He can’t even try and guess what France is thinking. France could be thinking about _anything_ ; what they’re preparing in the kitchen, the contents of the peace treaty, the last person he woke up beside.

France stole Normandy. France hurt England, several times, for a long time. France kissed England, which is maybe beside the point except England still thinks about it, sometimes, on the edge of falling asleep and waking up. France is England’s worst enemy, and England is here, in France, to sign a treaty that recognises a defeat at France’s hands.

England looks away first.

* * *

 

**England, Winter, 1338**

“I don’t like this,” England says.

Wales is in the room, but talking to Wales is basically the same as talking to an empty room, these days. He’s miserable company most of the time – when he isn’t bewitching England’s possessions to disappear for days on end, he’s weeping over poetry, or plotting his next escape plan.

“I think the whole thing is stupid,” Wales says. “How could you and France possibly be the same country – France _exists_ as a separate entity. Sometimes I think your Kings just like waging war.”  
“He wants to kill France,” England reminds him. He understands the desire, has considered doing the same thing often enough. “And then I would control his lands.”

Wales considers this. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, braiding his hair. When he’s finished, he flops back down onto the covers, staring up at the canvas above.   
“I’d rather have France control yours,” he says. England glares at him.   
“You don’t get a say in this,” he says, viciously.   
“Obviously not,” Wales says, coolly. “If I did, you wouldn’t be doing something so incredibly _stupid_.”  
“If you did, we wouldn’t do anything at all,” England snaps. “We’d just sit around talking about our feelings and being annexed.”

Wales lifts his head slightly to give England an evil look, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything because the door bangs open and Scotland comes in. He has to duck his head to pass through – France, behind him, does as well but England doesn’t think he needs to, he’s not _that_ tall.   
“What are you two going on about?” Scotland says. England scowls at him; it’s none of his business, but Scotland’s been like this since they arrived – loud and mean and bad-tempered. Still, if England doesn’t say something, Wales will and France oughtn’t know that they were discussing the war.   
“Poetry,” he says. Scotland scoffs, like they don’t all know that he wept at the minstrel’s song at dinner two days ago. He turns to translate for France. France smiles around at them all, and then he leans over and tugs gently at Wales’s braid.   
“ _That is pretty_ ,” he says, in French. Wales’s gaze slides over to England.   
“He says that’s pretty,” England says.   
“Oh!” says Wales. He sits up on his knees and pats the bed beside him. France sits. He smiles, slyly, at England.   
“ _You do speak French, still, then_.”  
“ _Only when I have to,”_ England says. “ _And you’ll be speaking English soon enough_.”

Scotland whacks him across the back of the head, hard enough that lights pop in front of his eyes. France laughs; Wales murmurs, reproachfully, but he doesn’t do anything. England glares, but there’s not much he can do in Scotland’s home. Scotland’s bigger than him, and stronger, although England’s got the upper hand most of the time now.  
“Be polite to our fucking guests,” Scotland snarls.  
“ _We’re_ your guests too, you fucker,” England snaps. Scotland makes a face – they both know he didn’t want England to come. They both know England didn’t want to either; the only reason he’s here is because the King didn’t want Wales to go alone, and the Queen wanted Wales out of the court.

Perhaps the only person who’s here willingly is France – he and Scotland have been pretty close since they arranged their stupid alliance. And yet, and yet –

Scotland spent last night in Wales’s chambers, drinking mead and swapping old stories. France had spent most of the banquet the night before talking to England – well, arguing with England, but his attention was not on Scotland until the end, and Scotland had picked morosely at his food and England had felt a little – bad.

He would never be stupid enough to fall in love with France, but Wales says Scotland has and Wales is the best at _feelings,_  although he's the worst at almost everything else, so England believes him _._

Whether it’s love or – something else, Scotland cares more than France. It’s not surprising, really – France was flirting with one of the servants at dinner and God knows where he spent last night. If it weren’t Scotland, England would feel sorry for him.

But it is Scotland, and England’s not sure he understands. When Wales had told him his suspicions, England had laughed and Wales had looked unimpressed and said,  
“Brother, be kind. Haven’t you ever been in love?”  
“I love my people,” England had said, which is true and all that matters, really. But Wales had looked at him strangely, and then he’d shrugged and all he’d say, even when England asked him, was,  
“It’s not the same.”

* * *

 

**France, Summer, 1356**

They meet on the battlefield by accident.

England has killed one foot soldier, and swung his sword into the next one. He is expecting to meet no resistance, to see another man drop into his own blood. Instead, there’s a clash of metal on metal, as his sword meets the side of the Frenchman’s.

“ _You_ ,” France says.   
“Me,” England agrees. He swings his sword free, aims another blow at France’s side. France pre-empts this one too, catching it on his blade and throwing the weight of it off. England stumbles back – France follows, hacking at the air.  
“You miserable, cowardly, snivelling little worm,” he says. He has to shout to be heard over the battlefield, and he punctuates every word with a slash towards England’s armour. England dodges, ducks, parries every blow – and he’s elated.  He hasn’t had to work this hard for anything in a long time.

France manages to land a hit – striking the edge of his blade on England’s armour. The reverberations are shocking, sending England tripping backwards. France doesn’t follow, doesn’t press the advantage. He reaches up to unbuckle his helmet, shakes his hair free. England does the same.   
“I wonder when we’ll have to stop wearing these things,” France says, conversationally. He tosses his helmet to one side – it’s a bizarre thing to do, leaving his neck exposed like that, but England copies him anyway. “They’re infernally hot.”  
“Probably when we invent swords sharp enough to cut through them,” England says. France nods, his curls bobbing around his shoulders. His hair is filthy, matted with dirt and sweat.   
“I suppose you’re right,” he says. Then he makes a wild swing at England’s head; England parries the blow, throws it back.

The sun is glinting off France’s armour, lighting up his hair like candlelight; it’s soaked into his skin, turning it warm-gold beneath the mud, the blood. He looks like he’s stepped out of a stained glass window; burning and alive. There is a moment where England does not want to kill him, wants to kiss him, wants to save him, knows in his bones, in his blood, that as long as France is alive, England will be too, that this will be it for years and years –

“You have gotten better,” France says. He sounds delighted, deflects England’s next blow with his shield and then manages to scrape the tip of his sword across England’s cheek. With the burst of pain comes something terrible, rising up in England’s chest, buoyant, somewhere from the depths of the English Channel.   
“You bastard.” He slams his shield into France’s arm when France sidesteps the trajectory of his blade; judging by the crunch, he thinks he breaks it. France’s eyes double in size; he’s laughing.   
“I have a message for you, petit!” he calls. Perhaps the battle ended already, maybe years ago, maybe it is just England and France and the rest of the world will fall at the feet of the victor. “My brother says hello and _your_ brother says fuck you!”

England growls.

“Or perhaps he meant fuck _me_ ,” France says, contemplatively. And then, in case England missed it – “Because that is what I am doing.”  
“Fuck _you_ ,” England snarls, tries to take France’s head off, misses by several inches.   
“Any time you want, Angleterre,” France says, and then he sends England sprawling – but he doesn’t kill him, as England thought he would. He vanishes, darts off into the fray and his army loses the battle.

* * *

 

**France, Summer, 1431**

England isn’t there when they kill Joan. He’s on the other side of the country, boiling in his armour – but he knows that they’re going to, and he doesn’t stop it.

Maybe that makes him as guilty as France thinks he is.

The first time he meets France, after; France is dying. He’s staring up at the sky, and there’s blood running down his jaw, his neck – he’s holding the hand of a soldier who looks the same age as him, fifteen, sixteen. The soldier is dead, eyes glassy. France’s eyes are glassy too, but he’s breathing.

England has to kneel down beside him before France’s attention shifts from the passage of clouds.   
“She spoke to God,” France says. “Jeanne.”  
“Did she?” England asks. He’d heard people say it, of course, but he hadn’t believed it.  
“He chose her. Jeanne. He was going to make us great and good. She knew how to make me good again.”  
“She couldn’t save you,” England says. This seems fairly obvious to him, but the look France gives him is poison and he supposes that France is like Wales, he likes to hope, he likes to pin his hopes on things and people. England prefers to rely on himself: people die, things fade but he isn’t going anywhere. He has had time to prove to himself what he can do. A hundred years is the lifespan of three Jeanne d’Arcs. It’s a moment to England, a handful of seasons, some battles, two, maybe three monarchs who will all ask him to do the same thing: be strong, and stronger still.   
“Angleterre,” says France, hoarsely. He huffs a laugh. “No. I do not expect you to understand.”  
“I do understand,” says England. “I just think it’s stupid.”  
“Then you do not understand!” France says, and then, voice rising, hysterical, “ _You killed her_!”  
“I did nothing!”  
“You could have saved her!”  
“Save the enemy’s greatest weapon?” England scoffs. “You get more ridiculous every year, I think this war is draining you of what little intelligence you had.”

France screams and lurches upwards; he manages to catch the side of England’s face with his fist; the punch bounces off, but there was enough force behind it to hurt. Then they’re tumbling over one another, France pulling England’s hair, England clawing at France’s face. France is mad, quite mad – he’s whispering a prayer even as England shoves him over. France punches him hard in the face; blood sprays out, they’re both drenched in it – France’s blood on England’s hands, England’s blood dripping down his face, into France’s hair.

France goes limp.

“Are you dead?” England asks. He thinks France has broken two of his fingers.   
“No you stupid boy,” says France. He’s lying across England’s lap, breathing heavily. A pause. “How many of our soldiers remember why we are fighting?”  
“Just us,” says England, but sometimes he forgets, too. Going to war with France feels like a habit, these days. “I think.”  
“Oh, you think?” France says. He presses the palm of his hand against his ribs. “You hurt me.”  
“You broke my nose.”  
“Just your nose?”  
“And my fingers.”  
“Better.” France turns his head to the side, spits out a mouthful of blood. “For God’s sake,” he says. “It’s _my_ country. It’s not _yours_. This war is ridiculous. It’s mine - I am it, I am flesh and blood, I am _proof_. What are you going to do to take it? Cut off my arm?”

England dabs the blood away from his mouth, speculatively.  
“I don’t have a big enough sword,” he says.   
“Of course not,” says France. He heaves a great breath and closes his eyes. “I didn’t want to die alone,” he says.

England had been intending to say something withering. It dies in his mouth, at France’s face, the lines around his mouth and the bruises around his eyes, the ragged, painful sound of his breath. He is very aware of the weight of France’s hand on the crook of his elbow, of the mud slick against his knees.

France’s fingers tighten around England’s wrist. His thumb swipes up and over England’s pulse point, streaking mud and blood across his skin.

“Do you ever wish we weren’t what we are,” he asks. His voice is hoarse. When England dares to look at him, the colour has drained completely from his face, and there’s blood on his mouth.   
“Yes,” England says. “And then I remember why I’m glad we are.”  
“Why?” France asks. It’s a wheeze, a little desperate – his eyes are up on the clouds again. Maybe he’s looking for God.  
“I love my people,” England says. It is as simple as that. France moans – it sounds like _Jeanne_.

* * *

 

**France, Winter, 1469**

“I thought Normandy was coming,” says England. He has to hurry to keep up with France – but he’ll be that tall soon, wait and see.   
“Normandy is gone,” says France, sharply. He turns a corner without warning, and England has to double back to find him again.   
“What do you mean, _gone_?”

Seeing Normandy was the only reason England had agreed to accompany the embassy to France – although he doubts his King would have listened if he had refused. Edward has a lot to deal with at the moment and, although he is kind to England, his presence makes him nervous.

“France!”  
“I mean, he is – he vanished.”  
“He vanished?”  
“Are you stupid? You do not understand?”  
“What do you mean, he vanished?” England demands. “France!”

France stops, whirls.   
  
“He went to sleep and the next morning he had gone. His bed had been slept in. His clothes were all there. The window was still locked and the guards had not seen him leave. He went to sleep and then he vanished. This is where you will sleep.” France pushes open the door and shoves England through it.   
“Wait,” says England, stumbling. “Wait - no - I don’t understand.”  
“He’s gone,” says France. He tries to shut the door, but England jams his foot against the wall to stop him.  
“Why?”

France’s jaw works.  
“He’s not independent,” he says. “He wasn’t independent. Normandy does not exist as a separate state, anymore.”  
“You’re lying,” England says. He’s expecting Normandy to jump out from behind the bed but the room is empty, it’s just England and France, on the other side of the door.

He feels ill.

“He’s not here anymore,” France says. “I am not lying, Angleterre.”  
“I didn’t know that could happen,” England says, thinking of Wales, of staying up late at night to talk about dragons.   
“Nor did I,” says France. He sucks in his breath too fast, it sounds like he’s drowning. “But - Rome.”  
“Maybe he could come back,” says England.  
“I don’t think so,” says France.  
“You could try.”  
“You think I could? You think I could split my country to see if maybe that would bring him back?”  
“I would,” says England.  
“No you wouldn’t,” says France. He’s right, of course.

But, Normandy.

France looks like he wants to say something else. England wants to, too, but he can’t think of anything, except stupid questions. What did he look like, when he died? Did it hurt? No, of course it didn’t hurt - he vanished, dissolved into history. And France is standing right in front of him, seventeen. That’s what Normandy would have looked like, in a few years. Add the scar the Vikings gave him. Minus the air of arrogant superiority.

“Are you going to cry?” France asks.  
“No,” says England. He’s walked back into the room and sat on the bed. France takes a step over the threshold. He folds his hands together.  
“How are your brothers?” he asks.  
“Go away,” says England.  
“I’m not trying anything,” says France. “I just. I miss mine. I miss my brother.”  
“ _You_ ’ _re_ not going to cry, are you?” England spits.  
“I might do,” says France. He sits down beside England, on his hands. “Real men aren’t afraid of crying.”  
“Who told you that? Someone French, probably.”  
“Obviously it was somebody French, _I_ am France.”  
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” says England.

He kicks his feet, to distract himself from the burning behind his eyes.

“He used to talk a lot about you,” says France. England doesn’t say anything. His throat itches. “About climbing trees with you. And your terrible weather. He said you were terrible at dressing your wounds, and I thought that seemed quite likely.”  
“I got better,” England snaps, and then he starts crying quite suddenly, taking himself by surprise. France puts an arm around him, awkwardly, pats him. England turns his face away, and then into France’s shoulder. France pats his hair, his back. He’s not very good at comforting people, but that’s alright, because England doesn’t want to be comforted by France.

After a while, he pulls away, wiping his face. France’s eyes are wet, and his cheeks are sticky. England has now seen France cry twice, and both times it was England’s fault. If his people hadn’t killed Jeanne. If he hadn’t let Normandy go.

He reaches up and he wipes the tear tracks off France’s skin with his fingertips. France sniffs.   
“It is stupid,” he says. England can feel his breath against his wrists.  
“I was just trying to help,” he snaps.  
“Not you,” says France. “Me. It is stupid, to cry over this.”  
“I thought real men aren’t afraid to cry,” England returns. France tilts his head in acknowledgement. His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile. He catches one of England’s hands and squeezes.   
“He did not feel any pain,” says France. “He was asleep. I think, I am upset for my own sake, more than his. I do not have my brother, anymore.”  
“All my brothers are still alive,” says England. “And I don’t have them anymore. It’s not stupid.”  
“It is a terrible thing to live for so long,” says France. “Now I only have you.” He’s tearing up again, which is a little rude. “Only you understand,” he sobs.  
“Now you are being stupid,” says England. France hiccups. “You have Scotland,” he says. “And that boy who runs around with a sword.”

France sniffs, looking a little bemused.   
“I don’t know him at all.”  
“Well I don’t know who you know. That boy from the South?”  
“The pretty one?”  
“Yes.”  
“I hate him.”  
“Well, I hate you,” England says, out of habit, and France does laugh this time, looks a little surprised by it.   
“Do you remember those letters?” he asks. “I sent them to Normandy and he would send his replies.”  
“You always said hello to me.”  
“You always said hello to me.”  
“No,” says England. “That was Normandy. He added them in.”  
“But you started it,” France says. “I thought you were apologising for punching me in the stomach.”  
“When you tried to lick me?”  
“I wasn’t licking you,” France scowls.   
“You deserved a punch in the stomach,” says England, mercilessly. France rolls his eyes. He scrubs a hand across his cheeks.   
“I never understood,” he says. “Why he liked you.”  
“I always knew he had to like you,” says England. He has never lost anything important before. Kings, queens - they are temporary and transient. Normandy was supposed to be forever. “Do you think people will remember him?”  
“He conquered _you_ ,” says France. “Although you are such a little thing, it won’t be long before somebody else does. Me, probably.”  
“I’ll conquer you before you conquer me.”  
“You could not conquer a small hill.”  
“Will you just answer my question?” England snaps.   
“We will remember him,” France says, solemnly. “I suppose that is the best we can hope for. That our kind can remember each other.”  
“I’d love to forget you,” England says.

France laughs. He still has one arm around England’s shoulder and he’s pressed warm against England’s side. For a moment, out of the blue, England thinks France might kiss him. For a moment, even stranger, England wants him to.

* * *

 

**England, Autumn, 1501**

Once the ceremony’s ended, Wales taps England’s shoulder, and inclines his head towards one of the side doors. It’s a good idea, England thinks, to avoid the crowds. He follows Wales through the mass of people pressing outside, but then France has stepped into his path.  
“Bonjour,” he says.   
“Hello,” says England, irritated. “Goodbye.”  
“Oh, no,” says France. “Wait – I wanted to introduce you – oh, he’s gone.”  
“What are we doing?” Wales demands, appearing over France’s shoulder. “Oh.”  
“Bonjour,” says France. He sounds _interested_ which is horrible. It’s bad enough that France and _Scotland_ have been together – England still likes Wales and, oh, his brother should not be going that shade of red.   
“What?” England says, loudly. “Who did you want to introduce me to?”  
“I’m France,” says France, holding out a hand. Wales coughs.  
“I know,” he says. France laughs, like a cat. “I’m – er – Wales.”  
“You grew up,” says France, approvingly.   
“Stop looking at him like that,” England snaps.  
“Jealous?” asks France, not looking away. Then someone puts a hand on his shoulder and he turns and says, “Oh, there you are. England, this is Spain.”  
“Hola,” says Spain, cheerfully.

_Oh_ , thinks England. What comes out of his mouth is,  
“Holello.”  
“Holello,” France repeats, smirking.   
“I – er –” says England. Spain is still beaming. If France smiled like that, he would look insane.  
“It was a very beautiful ceremony, si? You will like Catalina, she is very clever. A born Queen.”  
“Yes,” says England, dazedly. He’s heard stories about Spain – most of them from Portugal and France, and Portugal is brimming with resentment and France is probably a pathological liar but still, England is struggling to see how their descriptions could have been so far off. Spain is gorgeous – dark hair, green eyes, tall and lean. He doesn’t look insane, he isn’t fiddling with a rosary, nor has he attacked them with an axe, which Portugal had implied was a regular occurrence.   
“It does seem strange that we have never met before!” Spain says. “I have heard so much about you from my brother. And France.”

France’s smile lasts less than a moment – sickly sweet and blatantly false. Spain doesn’t seem to notice.

“Portugal says your country is very beautiful,” he adds, dropping his voice as he steps in closer so France is blocked from view. “I do see what he means.”

“Ha ha,” says England and then thinks, _no, that’s not funny_. “Yes. It is. Sorry – it’s the heat. Not used to it.”   
“Of course,” says Spain, smiling at him. It’s not fair for someone to be so – so – England has never wanted to touch anybody more. He wonders, wildly, if Spain and _France_ have ever – And then he remembers that he really doesn’t want to know.

At the banquet, they sit opposite each other – Wales is several seats down the table, picking at his food and pointedly ignoring the diplomat beside him. France is next to England. He and Spain ignore each other, mostly. When someone comes around to fill their goblets up with wine, France drains his in one. Spain picks his up, holds it up to England and says,  
“To our union, Inglaterra.”

Beside England, France tenses. For a moment, his expression slips – his eyes are dark and his mouth tight, he looks angry. England touches his goblet to Spain’s, treads on France’s foot beneath the table. France kicks him back; his frown smooths over, he is impassive, superior. But he leans in when Spain turns to the man next to him.

“Be careful, Angleterre,” France says, under his breath. “You do not know who you are dealing with.”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” England retorts, quietly. “And he can’t be worse than you.”  
“I didn’t think you quite so stupid as to be fooled by charm and a pretty smile,” France hisses.  
“How dare _you_ accuse _me_ of that –”  
“He is quite mad,” France whispers. “He will hurt you.”

England had begun to protest. He stops himself, turns to face France completely, smirking.   
“You do care,” he says. France rolls his eyes.  
“I have put so much work into crushing you, mon petit, it seems such a shame to let someone else walk in now and take all the credit.”  
“Uh-huh,” England says. He makes a point of leaning over the table to get Spain’s attention again. Beside him, France sighs, but England’s a little bit too preoccupied with Spain’s smile and the bright green of his eyes to care.

* * *

 

**France, Winter, 1558**

England is bleeding.

There’s blood everywhere; on the linen that they’d hurriedly put down for him, on his shirt and on his face, in his hair, on his hands, on Spain’s hands.

“It won’t stop,” says Spain. England must have stopped screaming at some point, because his throat is aching and Spain talking cuts a ringing silence. “You’re bleeding enough for an army.”  
“No – I didn’t – Oh, _fuck –_ no, stop, that _hurts_ –”  
“Sssssh,” says Spain, through his teeth. “I’m just trying to help.”  
“Well it’s _not helping it fucking hurts._ ”  
“Si,” says Spain, patiently. He sweeps the hair off England’s forehead, and chases it with a damp cloth.   
“What is it?” England asks. Spots are popping in front of his eyes, but he forces them open. Spain pushes a hand through his hair, streaking red across his skin.   
“I don’t know. You’re just. Bleeding.”  
“You mean there’s no wound?”  
“No,” says Spain, pushing England back down. “There is. Don’t look.”  
“Have they –” His voice breaks. He thinks of Normandy’s empty chambers, fifty years ago. “Have they _invaded me_?”  
“No. I think you might have lost Calais.”  
“Oh,” says England. He turns his head to the side, so he can’t see Spain, but then there’s a tentative hand on his cheek. It’s warm – well, it’s probably warm with his blood, but it’s a nice thought.   
“I’ll get it back for you,” says Spain. “I promise.”

England smiles into Spain’s hand and the blood on it and tries to imagine Spain persuading France to give Calais up. He can imagine Spain holding a sword to France’s neck and _demanding_ –

It’s a nice thought.

“I’m sorry,” says Spain, after a little while. “Can you promise not to hit me again if I try and bind it up?”  
“No,” says England. “Yes.”  
“I’ll be right back,” says Spain, and he presses a kiss to England’s forehead and disappears out of the tent for hot water and strips of cloth.

England shuts his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

It hurts, like someone’s reached inside him and torn something out.

He supposes they have.

“Bonjour, cher,” says France. England opens his eyes. He hasn’t seen France in a very long time  
“How the bloody fuck did you get in here?”  
“Bloody is the right word. Did I do that?”  
“You don’t need to sound so fucking pleased. Where’s my sword, I’ll run you through.”  
“Tempting,” says France. “Here, let me help.”  
“Don’t touch me.”  
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”  
“Blood?”  
“Your blood, specifically, yes.”  
“Here to finish me off?” England asks. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t really care if France comes closer – Spain will be back in a moment. France looks the same as he did the last time England saw him and that must be approaching a decade now, maybe longer. England can still see him when he closes his eyes – he isn’t wearing armour and, wait – how _did_ he get in here?  
“How is dearest Espagne?” France asks, perching on the end of England’s bed. England tries to kick him off, but it hurts too much to move. France pats his ankle. “I was _so_ pleased when I heard you were back together. It seemed rather _convenient_ , of course, but I always assumed your relationship was based on – ah, mutual satisfaction. I can’t say I’m surprised.”  
“It’s none of your business,” England says, haughtily. France sneers – or, he makes a sound like one. England opens one eye to check and, yes, France’s mouth is twisted up; he’s staring at the other side of the tent and when he looks back at England, his eyes – they’re _blue_ , not green – are cold.   
“Oh, cher, do you _love_ him?”  
“Shut up,” he says, sharply. “You don’t know what happened between us.”

France is still smirking, bitten lips curling.

England wants to kiss him - he wants to hit him.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he snarls, struggling to sit up. France cocks an eyebrow – he’s wearing green, like he had been the day he told England that Normandy was dead. He’s got England’s blood on his hands, Calais wrested from his grip at last. He looks at England and his eyes – blue as the sea where it meets Marseille – are as clear and remote as they were the day he kissed England outside a little chapel beneath the trees. Their kind doesn’t wear the same expression for so long. Spain is turbulent and moody, changes in seconds, swinging from the heights of happiness (when he’ll hold England, kiss England, trace gentle fingers across the scars he’s given England) to uncontrollable fury.

England can taste blood at the back of his throat, sour. He loves Spain, and it’s no wonder that France scoffs at the idea of it. For all he talks of it, England doesn’t think he’s ever had it.   
“You wouldn’t understand,” England says, again, coldly. “No one could ever love you.”

It’s almost worth it, seeing France flinch.

 “I do enjoy our little talks.”  
“That makes one of us,” says England, closing his eyes. France laughs, throaty, and then there’s a moment, a stretch of silence, where England doesn’t know if he’s still there, if he ever was at all. Then England can hear him come over – he sets something down on the table beside the bed, swears in a very un-France-like way and kisses the tip of England’s nose. England barely has time to realise it – when he opens his eyes again, Spain’s standing over him. His pretty green eyes are screwed up in concentration and he’s cleaning the dried blood off England’s face. His fingers are warm where they brush England’s skin, and England is warm under the blanket someone’s pulled over him, and he’s in love.

* * *

 

**France, Late Summer,** **1588**  

There are three reasons England’s here, now.

One. When he closes his eyes he can see the ships on fire and he can see the sea, fathomless and reflecting red-gold and he remembers being tiny and bundled up in a stone hall with Denmark and Norway leaning against one another across the flames and hearing about the monsters that lived in the dark places below the water.

Two. In the dark, it is very easy to feel very alone. It’s strange, how used he was to the weight of Spain’s arm around his waist and the feel of soft skin and messy hair against him in the night.

Three. He’s very, very, _very_ drunk.

“Shush,” says France. It comes out half a hiccup, which makes England laugh harder. “Shush, Angleterre, somebody will hear.”  
“Who?” England drawls. “Who-o-o-o?”  
“You are drunk,” says France, amused.  
“I’m not drunk,” says England. He makes an effort to pry himself off France’s shoulder and stand up straight. It works, for a moment, and then he topples forward. France catches him under the arms and drags him back to sit down. They pass another bottle between them, and they’re mostly silent. England doesn’t look at the dying fire and France doesn’t look at England.

The air is very thick, between them. If he turned his head, England could kiss France’s cheek, taste the salt-sweet of his skin. He wants to; he thinks he will, later.

He knows he will, later – there is only one reason England is here, now, and they’ve been waiting for it for a few hundred years.

“Did you love him?” asks France.   
“Not for a while,” says England. He thinks of Spain, when he smiled. “Oh, no, that’s not true. I loved him. I just didn’t like him very much.”  
“I’ve never been in love,” says France.  
“It’s not very nice,” says England. He thinks of the warmth of Spain’s body, next to him at night, the flash of his eyes in the candlelight. “Oh, no. Parts of it are.”  
“The sex?”  
“Yeah.”

Another pause – longer, this time. The bottle of wine is empty, and England isn’t sure why he’s here, now, why this couldn’t wait until the morning. He doesn’t feel very drunk anymore; he could cut himself on the edges of his vision as they come back into focus. He doesn’t think this was such a good idea – France could just as easily slip a knife between his ribs and deliver him to Spain as he could kiss him. And why does England want France to kiss him – when did that become something he thought about outside the breath between sleeping and waking up.

“Why are you here?” France asks.   
“I don’t know,” says England. Here it is – in a moment, everything will change; France will stand up and walk to the window, and England will return to his chambers alone. Or, France will turn to face him and –

France turns to face him. His eyes are very blue, the sky over Paris, and he says,  
“Can I kiss you?”  
“I suppose,” says England.

When they pull apart a little while later, France hums, at the back of his throat.  
“That wasn’t very good,” he says.  
“Yeah,” says England. Then, “but I don’t _love_ you.”  
“Ah,” says France, like that explains it. He leans down, unsteady, to put the bottle on the floor and then he twists round to put his arms around England’s neck and guide their mouths back together. France tastes like red wine and winter sunlight. It’s nicer this time, England thinks, vaguely. It’s nicer than kissing Spain, to hurt, pressed up against a wall or a door, more aware of where his sword is than what Spain’s hands are doing. It’s nicer than kissing in the woods, too.  
“That’s better,” says France. He shuffles over, swinging his leg across England’s waist.  
“You’re heavy,” says England. France puts his hands either side of England’s face and kisses him again, tipping them both backwards. England sniggers against France’s mouth. France flicks his temple. England bites France’s lip, irritated. France grins against England’s teeth, hooks his fingers in the strings of England’s shirt and tugs them free. His skin is burning hot against England’s, or maybe it’s the other way round – England gets a little confused about where he ends and France begins, somewhere in the middle of being pushed back down onto the bed with his fingers knotted in France’s long hair.

In the morning, he wakes up with France’s arm heavy over his waist and his breath against the back of his neck. In the morning, last night seems less like a bad idea and more like the worst one England has ever had. He can actually feel the bruises France’s fingers have left on his hips. He’s not entirely sure that he isn’t at war with France, for some reason, right now. He has a hangover and – oh _God_ , what if France is still sleeping with Scotland?

England wiggles free of France’s arm, slides off the bed and picks up scattered clothing – he can’t find his shirt, where the devil did France throw it, no respect for other people’s possessions – it’s Calais, all over again, and England remembers finding the matching scar curving across France’s hipbone, remembers trailing his mouth up it –

He finds France’s shirt, puts it on instead, and swipes up the purse on the table.

When he slips out of the room, France is still asleep, his face pressed into the pillow and his arm slung over the space England left behind.

* * *

 

**England, Autumn, 1650**

England doesn’t remember much about the sixteen hundreds. What he knows, he knows in snatches, glimpses of moments that do not quite fit together to form a picture.

He remembers running across the country at night, hiding in the day, going from Roundheads in the North to Royalists in the south. He remembers the fighting and the soldiers and the agony of his people pitted against each other.

He remembers seeing his King killed, the silver sweep of the sword and the burst of red.

Now, he is in a little inn outside Southampton and France is standing by the window. The room is dark so his face is almost invisible – a pale smudge in the gloom, but the moonlight makes his hair shine. The effect is ridiculous.

“Why am I here?” England asks. “I have another question. Why are you here?”

France doesn’t answer for a moment. He tilts his head, his hair spills over one shoulder. When he steps forward, his face blurs into focus – its angles and slants. It’s a familiar face. It doesn’t belong here, in England’s new England.  
“Are you alright?” he says.

England knows he doesn’t look well. He’s thin and sharp and bearing the marks of his civil war. It manifests in other ways too – he’s jumpy and twitchy and he’s still convinced that he’s going to try and run himself through with his own sword. It had only happened once, the day they executed his King, and Wales had stopped him in time, but it’s there, and looming.

France is thin as well. England thinks that if he was to close the distance between them and help France shed his clothes, he’d find new scars – the Huguenot Rebellions, the effects of the Thirty Years War. It’s a ridiculous thought, and he promptly banishes it.

“Angleterre,” says France, sharply. “Are you alright?”  
“Yes,” says England. He waits, in case he makes an attempt to contradict himself, or make a wild swing at France or for the sword strapped to his belt. Nothing. His limbs are his own. “Don’t patronise me,” he adds, snippily.  
“I am glad your ordeal did nothing to your manners,” says France. “It would have been so disappointing had you turned respectable.”  
“You are the one who lured me here alone, in the middle of the night,” England retorts. France inclines his head.  
“There were rumours you’d died,” he says. “I wanted to see for myself.”  
“Rumours?”  
“I heard from the Netherlands, who heard from Spain.”  
“That’s not a rumour,” England says. “It’s wishful thinking.”

France laughs. He moves away from the window, towards the bed and sits on it, pats the space next to him invitingly. England scowls at him.  
“I am glad you’re not dead,” says France. “I was sure this Commonwealth would make a terribly boring nation.”

England rolls his eyes. France almost looks relieved. He takes a step closer.  
“I have your King,” he says.   
“My old King, my Highness,” says England. The words come out on top of each other. He has to swallow more down. France makes an aborted motion, half-reaching for the knife at his belt. England wonders, wildly, what they’ve been saying about him. Is he mad? Is his country mad? Are his people, his men, his women, his children, are his people mad?   
“Yes,” he says. His voice is too loud in his ears but it’s what he meant to say. “Thank you for telling me. I will find him. Please hide him and keep him safe. It’s what my people want, we want our King.”  
“Angleterre,” says France.   
“Yes,” says England. His voice is high and hoarse but it’s what he meant to say and France is standing a lot closer than he had been a moment ago, and England can’t remember what just happened. His hands find the strap of his belt, and then France has taken them, nails biting into skin, hauling them away. “I’m not going to hurt you,” says England.  
“They said you hurt yourself, without meaning to,” says France. “Mon cher. Angleterre.”  
“It hurts,” says England. His voice sounds very far away. He frees one hand, gently, to fist it on France’s chest. France runs his fingers through England’s hair, teasing out the tangles. “Everything hurts all the time, and I don’t know what I’m thinking. Sometimes I forget whole hours. Once I tried to kill myself, and I didn’t realise I was doing it. What if I’ve already done it, and I forgot? France, do you remember 1558, when you stole Calais? Do you remember all that blood? I dreamed you were in the tent, and it was impossible, you were on the other side of the country. Maybe I’ve always been mad. I’m fighting my people, I’m killing my people. Look at this.”

He pulls his hand away, sharp, to hold it up in front of France’s face. France’s eyes are very blue and very wide. He looks sad, and anxious, and he’s got one hand tight on England’s wrist, like he’s scared to let go.

“Sometimes I think it’s covered in blood. I see it, on my fingers. France, everything hurts.”

France doesn’t say anything, but he pulls England in closer, puts his arms around him and holds on. He smells like lavender in Provence, the wind and the rain outside. “I can stay as long as you want, until tomorrow.”

England huffs a laugh.

“Maybe you could come to France with me, and see Charles.”  
“Maybe that’s not a good idea. I might hurt him.”  
“Maybe you could go and stay with Wales.”  
“Wales is in London.”  
“With Scotland then.”  
“I’d rather not.”  
“Ireland.”  
“That would make it worse.”  
“We could go to the New World.”  
“We?”  
“You,” says France. “You could go to the New World.”

England tightens his arms around France’s waist, thinks that he could take the dagger from France’s belt and drive it through him, beneath his ribs, like he’s dreamed of doing ten, fifty, a hundred times. He thinks of America, the barren land that stretches for miles, the little boy who would meet him at the harbour, slipping a tiny hand into England’s to tow him home, sitting on England’s shoulders to try and reach the stars. England hasn’t seen America in years. But he thinks of his people – the chaos they’re in without him gone. They’re hurting him, but he loves them, fiercely. They’re fighting this war for him – or so they tell themselves, so he tells himself.  
“I need to stay here,” he says. He lets his arms fall to his sides, and then France lets him go.   
“Oui,” he says. “I understand.”

* * *

 

**England, Winter, 1688**  

The day before he left, eighteen years ago, his embassy’s job concluded, France had held his hand. Nobody had ever done that before, held his hand just for the sake of it. France’s fingers were slightly chapped and his palms were slightly damp. His nails were just long enough to bite into England’s skin. England squeezed a bit too hard in retaliation. It was nice.

The night before he left, France had pulled him into a room and pressed him against the door and asked him to follow. He’d said, _you could come with me_ , off-hand and hopeful. In the darkness, England’s wistful for it. He thinks he should have done.

The Netherlands had sailed in seven months later. He’s taller than France. He’s taller than almost anyone England’s ever met. His hair is darker than France’s, and he keeps it at a respectable length, although it sticks up even after he’s crushed it down with one of his hats. He talks a lot less than France, and he’s made the effort to speak English, which is appreciated. He smokes a lot, and his chambers are always slightly foggy, slightly acrid. France had thrown open the windows every morning and leant out to jabber to the birds in French, looking ridiculous and utterly unaware of it.

The letters don’t come from France anymore. They stopped being friendly two months after England had said _no, I can’t_ , and they stopped being regular about a month after that. England burnt the last one, held it to a candle and watched the ink smudge and the parchment curl up. But earlier, the first letter France had sent after returning home – It had been lovely, it had practically leapt off the page, the possibility that, maybe, France _might_.

 

_Cher,_

_I suppose you’re worried about invasion. Well, I understand (although I myself have never been invaded) and I sympathise. Whenever you’re strong enough, our offer remains yours to accept: come and visit. The best views in the world are of Paris, the fields outside are beautiful this time of year, and you will have to see the sea in the autumn, just as it begins to get tumultuous. It makes me want to go aboard the next ship I can find, I can imagine what it would do to you. On second thought, I don’t want you to see it - you’ll sail away for good…_

 

The last day they’d spent together, they’d spent it in the gardens. France had fallen asleep, he’d mumbled names and looked hopelessly human. England had watched him, the way his face creased with sleep and his rumpled hair. He’d got grass caught in it. England had splayed his fingers in it, felt the earth – his earth – beneath his nails.

France’s eyes were blue, when they were open. England had tilted his head back to stare at the sky. France had said,  
“Angleterre,” and England had had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sun.  
The Netherlands doesn’t smile very often. He broods. Which is good, because England tends to brood too, and it’s a refreshing change, having someone to sit in silence with. France takes up space, although he’s smaller and slimmer. The Netherlands has to bend his head to kiss England, or England has to stand on tip-toes. The Netherlands’ hands are much bigger, when they splay across England’s waist. He handles him like something breakable, although England isn’t weaker, just smaller.

Which is good.

 

_France,_

_There are some people who do not learn how to love, and there are some people who do not want to love and there are some people who do not deserve it. You are the latter, which would explain everything, really - you killed both your brothers after all..._

 

Pressed up against the door of England’s chambers, the night before he left, France had said,  
“You could come with me.”

It had hurt to breathe around the hope of it.

“For a while,” France had said, watching him. “You could.”

He’d put one hand out and found England’s.

“No,” England had whispered. “I can’t.”

 

_Angleterre,_

_You are practically a pagan now, of course. We forget, sometimes. It’s not as if your religion had any authenticity, or any reason beyond the divorce. Speaking of the divorce, Spain is well, I thought you’d like to know. He seems to believe this impossible idea that you have magic. Of course, it would explain how you ever managed to bed him…_

* * *

**The Netherlands, Summer, 1712**

The prospect of a few weeks away from his brothers had been so tempting that England had forgotten that France would be there.

Or, rather – he’d forgotten what France being there meant.

Within three hours, England is regretting accepting the invitation to join the treaty negotiations instead of going to America. France has somehow managed to accumulate more bad habits in the months they haven’t seen each other. He greets England by asking after Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and then _cher Amerique_. He sits beside England at the opening talks, spends half the time looking out the window and sighing, loudly, and the other half sniggering at the English ambassadors’ French. At one point, he starts whistling – it’s sharp, tuneless, and just quiet enough that Netherlands – at the other end of the table, watching the proceedings with grim determination – cannot hear it.

When England returns to his chambers after the session is over, he’s got the beginnings of a headache. Somebody has been in to light a fire, but the room is dark enough that England leaves the door open behind him, propped ajar with a chair, as he goes to light the candles.

Then there are arms around him, guiding his hands. “Get off me,” England says, unconvincingly. France has draped himself over England’s back. He smells like Provence lavender and the salt in Marseille, a little like sweat and the perfume he wears to mask it.  
“I thought the session went well,” he says. His voice is hoarse, low; his breath is fanning out on the back of England’s neck. The candle catches, a tiny, tentative flame.  
“Get _off_ me,” England snaps. France does, leaning against the wall instead.  
“It will be nice to be at peace again,” he says. England agrees.  
“Peace,” he scoffs, instead. “We’re never at peace.”  
“You are bitter, aren’t you.” France sounds barely interested, and he’s moved onto the next thing before England can protest. “Do you ever wish you could retire? Be human? Marry and have children, worry about whether it will rain tomorrow, instead of politics?”  
“No,” England says.   
“Liar,” says France, affectionately. “I think we all do, cher.”   
“Don’t call me that,” England says. He kicks the chair free of the door, pushes it back beneath the table by the fire. “Anyway, we worry about rain now, and I don’t think marriage sounds all that appealing.”  
“What about children?” France asks. His voice is gentle, bordering on patronising. England glares at him, sitting down on the table to kick his boots off.  
“We have our dependencies,” he says, shortly.

France smiles – one of the rare, warm ones that England has always (privately) thought were his nicest.  
“Canada looks like me,” he says, proudly.  
“You’re delusional,” says England. France rolls his eyes, pushes away from the wall to stand next to England by the table.   
“Canada does like America,” he says. “It would be so nice for them to spend more time together.”  
“Yes,” says England. He’s planning on taking Canada, of course, but France doesn’t need to know that.   
“We could raise them,” says France, stepping still closer, in between England’s legs. England holds up a hand, intending to push France away, only France is a lot closer than expected; he ends up touching France’s chest.   
“We could, could we?” he says. He hopes it sounds sceptical, and not vaguely wistful.   
“Together.”  
“Together,” England repeats. He’s cross-eyed with the effort of keeping France in his line of vision.   
“A family,” France whispers.   
“Family,” England repeats, dazed. He’s been staring at France’s lips for a fraction too long – it takes a supreme effort to verbalise a problem. “But –” _Distance_ , he thinks, _you’re too far away – they’re too far away_ , and _I hate you_ _sometimes_.   
“Other people can do it,” France says. He kisses England, very softly, on the mouth, and pulls back, questioning. “We could do it.”  
“De- Hm.” England clears his throat, waits a beat until he’s sure his voice will come out normally. “Denmark and Norway are different.”  
“How?”

One of France’s hands is sliding up England’s waist. It’s very distracting. England considers slapping it away, but –

“They’re unified,” England says. “And we’re – I’m –”  
“Hmmm?” France says. He’s started kissing down England’s jawline. England really ought to slap him away – it’s practically his duty. He makes a feeble attempt at swatting France’s elbow, but ends up holding France’s hand – somehow, he’s not entirely sure how France managed that one.   
“Distance!” England says. He says it far louder than he intended, because France jumps back, eyes wide. Then he starts laughing, one hand pressed over his mouth, bright red. It’s bemusing and quite – quite attractive, actually. England doesn’t think he’s ever seen France blush before.   
“What?” France asks, still chuckling.   
“Distance,” England repeats. “They’re too far away from us.”  
“They could come back to Europe with us.”  
“America’s too big to leave unguarded. I’d have Spain and the Netherlands swarming over him before we’d landed.”  
“Over the land or the child?”  
“They might kidnap him!” England says, horrified. “No. We’ll stay with them, in the New World.”  
“Fine,” says France. “We stay with them in the New World.”  
“No, we can’t stay with them, that’s a ridiculous idea. Do you want your land to be invaded? I don’t. I have a reputation.”  
“Annoying and pessimistic?”  
“Independent.”  
“Ah.”  
“Yes,” England says. “Yes, and I want to keep it that way. So. No.”  
“No?”  
“Yes.”  
“Yes?”  
“No! And – look, the only reason we’re here right now is because we’re declaring a truce! After _eleven years_ of war! And it’s been the same for seven hundred years.”  
“What do you mean, it’s been the same for seven hundred years?” France says, leaning back, and he has the gall to look offended. “What about the sixteen hundreds?”  
“What about the sixteen hundreds?” England says, coolly. He remembers France saying _come with me_ –

“I see,” says France.  
“Don’t you dare,” England says.  
“So you think it is better for us to make peace and go our separate ways.”   
“Yes,” says England, firmly, although he doesn’t remember ever suggesting that.   
“I don’t particularly want to though,” says France.   
“Oh?” England says. “I’m sorry, I forgot how the world revolves around you and what you _want_ to do. What do you _want_ to do, France? Invade your neighbours? Steal my possessions in the New World?”  
“This,” France says, and he leans in again and kisses England firmly on the mouth. When he pulls back, England is gaping at him. “You are my friend,” France says. “When you aren’t murdering my people and trying to invade me, I mean.”  
“Your friend,” England says. “I know you don’t have many – except the ones you pay, I mean – but –”  
“You have _Wales_ ,” France retorts. “And you annexed him.”  
“Wales _is_ my friend.”  
“Did he get a say in that?”  
“Shut up.”  
“You see, Angleterre - this is what I want. I want to be able to talk to you.”   
“We aren’t talking, we’re arguing.”  
“You started it.”

England grins at the floor. 

France kisses him again; England slides one arm around his neck to tug him closer – pushes him away for long enough to say,  
“Friends, France, _really_?”  
“I know,” France says, breathlessly, and kisses him again. 

* * *

 

**Germany, Spring, 1748**

After, France sits up against the pillows and reaches for the bottle on the side table.

England watches him, absently, curled on his side in the sheets.   
“Want some?” France asks.   
“Please,” England says. He pushes up on his wrists and France passes the bottle by the neck. It’s raining, outside; England can hear it drumming on the windowpane. He passes the bottle back when he’s done and France’s fingers slide up, over his and curl around, briefly.

England slumps back against the headboard. He thinks he has some tobacco left, but it’s in the box on the table and –

France sets the bottle back on the table, clumsy. He twists round until he’s looking at England, and then he smiles. England smiles back, but he doesn’t say anything. He won’t, until France does, and when France does, it won’t be anything meaningful, anything important. England thinks that’s how it’s survived this long, this tiny, fragile thing between them. He thinks it’s a pity, sometimes. Sometimes he thinks it’s a relief.

“What next, for you?” France says.  
“Home,” England says. “And you?”  
“Home,” France says. He pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I am here a few more days.”  
“Oh,” England says. He thinks of his brothers, crammed into the house in Kent. They are probably getting on fine without him there. It is when he is back, when they are four in a house big enough for ten, that the problems start. “Paris?”  
“For a while,” France says. England thinks of him, alone, and he reaches out for France’s hand, golden skin in the sheets, and squeezes. France leans over and kisses him, warm and full on the mouth, pressing England back into the pillows, his body hot like a wave.

It is easier when they don’t talk. It is easier to like this, because France’s mouth and hands are clever and his eyes and the lines of his body are pretty and there isn’t anything else to it. Like this, it does not matter much when France’s breath is hot against England’s neck and he whispers broken things bitten off curses and _beautiful._

When they talk, England wants to kiss him. When they talk, France is France and England is.

England does not want to be in love.

* * *

**America, Autumn, 1781.**  

He can’t decide if he’s furious or devastated. Fury wins out most days, on principle: how dare he, this boy, this child he brought up, how _dare_ he?

But he is a child, after all – and he is still the child England brought up, a little piece of humanity. It is very strange seeing him on a battlefield, after all England did to shelter him from them. It is almost impossible to comprehend that America really is on the other side, that he is really holding his musket in steady hands and frowning over it.

He can see them - France and Spain. He can practically hear them, breathing down America’s neck - _hurt him before he hurts you_. Would he hurt America? He kills his people without a second thought, it’s habit to pull the trigger now.

But he remembers America, tiny, sitting on his shoulders and reaching up for the sky, shrieking with laughter, convinced he could hold the stars in his palms. America is taller than England now, still a mere boy, he no longer wants the stars but his new dreams are no more attainable.

It is not possible that he hears the crack of the rifle that kills him, but he does, nonetheless. It is not possible that he sees America, the child he brought up, lurch over the gun he has fired, but he remembers it anyway. He thinks – _oh you stupid boy, you wanted the stars_ –

Scotland carries him back.

He wakes up in a tent, with a headache and a searing pain in his stomach. It’s dark outside, and he’s lost America; America is free.

He drifts off. He thinks of America running down the harbour to meet England off the boat, fifty years ago. America had pulled the trigger. Before that, he had pointed the gun at England’s head and demanded independence. Before that, he had been tiny, he had sat on England’s shoulders and tried to reach the stars.

He has lost someone very dear to him. Someone who believed in him had seen the real, ruthless version and hadn’t stayed.

Nobody ever stays, unless England makes them.

He thinks of America’s finger on the trigger, and then the clash of sword on sword. Wales pleading, _stop it, stop it, stop it_. Normandy, tossing and turning on a straw pallet; making them both sick with laughter with his imitations; _things are only real if you can hurt them_.  Spain, covered in England’s blood – _I’ll get Calais back for you_ – and France, pressing cool hands to England’s feverish forehead. His hands had been cold, when he’d taken England’s face in them, touching him gently, like a benediction, or forgiveness, or something –

He keeps replaying it – the bullet that had gone from America’s hand to America’s gun to the air between them to England’s stomach.

What was the last thing they said to each other? England can’t remember – he can remember France sighing his name against his skin in bed three years ago. He can remember France talking to America – it must have been France, who told America to kill him –

Or Spain, maybe, but they’ve always been similar; bloodthirsty and manipulative and smiling behind every disappointment England has ever faced.

But the tiny seed of grief that has buried itself bone-deep, deep into his soil, is terrible and terrifying, because it blooms a little brighter every time France betrays him, every time he has gone when England wakes up, every time –

Three years ago, England had taken all the letters he had kept from France – foolish, sentimental, ridiculous – and he had burnt them. He had watched the paper shrivel up and burn, the flames swallowing all of those pretty words, the hundreds of lies that England had believed because he wanted to –

France is a liar, and a cheat, and England knows this, he has always known this. He’d thought – dear God, how very _stupid_ he can be – that this was different. He’d thought that France meant what he said about _feelings_ ; even if just for a moment, France loved him, or thought he did and England will take what he can get, from anyone. He was foolish. He was ridiculous, sentimental to ever think that France could be trusted, that France thought of him any differently than he did the rest of Europe. England has never been more to France than all the wars they’ve fought, all the bitter and terrible things they’ve said to each other.

He’s naïve. He’s desperate for something that’s always been out of his reach – it was America, and America pulled the trigger, it was Spain, and Spain broke his heart – didn’t even break it, watched it drown in the sea with his ships – it was Normandy, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Portugal – it’s never the same thing, once he thinks he has it.

France is always the same, when he kisses England, and it’s always enough, for a moment, for a heartbeat because England thought it meant something and England’s _desperate_ for _something_ –

It had been something when he had burned the last letter.

 

_The best views in the world are of Paris, the fields outside are beautiful this time of year, and you will have to see the sea in the autumn, just as it begins to get tumultuous. It makes me want to go aboard the next ship I can find, I can imagine what it would do to you. On second thought, I don’t want you to see it - you’ll sail away for good…_

* * *

 

**France, Winter, 1790.**

England had been anticipating France a broken man, driven to madness by the insanity of his people. France has never done what England wanted him to, and he opens the door to his apartment the picture of health.  
“Angleterre,” he says, dragging England across the threshold. England detaches his wrist from France’s grip. “I hoped you would come.”  
“You look well,” England says, politely. He hopes this will convey his displeasure at seeing France managing so well. His head is bare, he has lost the ridiculous trappings of his court - the silks and buttons and clouds of perfume - to workman’s clothes in dark colours, a green cockade pinned to his chest.   
“As do you,” France says. He opens the door to the parlour with a flourish, a mock-bow. “After you, mon ange. I must say, I am surprised at the speed of your recovery. It cannot be more than six months since Amerique shot you in your pretty little head.”  
“It’s been seven years,” England says, coldly. “And if you brought me here to gloat I shall shoot _you_ and dump your body in the Seine.”  
“Gloat?” France says, putting a glass full to the brim with wine into England’s hand. He downs his own in one - England turns his eyes away from the picture France makes with his head tilted back just so, his hair catching the January sunlight, the line of his throat. “I am offended.”  
“Spare me your trite.”  
“You are angry,” France comments. He has always had the most infuriating habit of infusing his words with amusement. It makes England’s blood _boil_. “It was nothing personal.”  
“Of course it was personal,” England hisses. “You’re a fucking Empire yourself - what in _heaven_ would be the attraction of supporting an upstart colony apart from the enjoyment of watching _me_ -” “I wanted to get your attention,” France says, blandly. England snorts. “Well, you didn’t reply to my letters.”  
“Your letters?” England repeats. “The last letter you sent me was poisonous hate and I burned it.”  
“Did it bother you?” France asks. He cocks his head to one side, like a bird. His hands are a little unsteady on the wine bottle.   
“It was a long time ago,” England says. “I had forgotten until you brought it up.”

France raises an eyebrow, takes a sip of wine straight from the bottle. It stains his lips, dark red, blood red.   
“The last thing I heard,” England says, “you were living in Versailles.”  
“Yes,” France says and - at last - he looks rattled. “I have moved.”  
“Clearly. And why this neighbourhood? It seems rather unsightly. Couldn’t you afford anything else? Has your Queen gambled your fortune away, perhaps?”  
“It is close to the heart of my people,” France says. “I feel it beating.” He reaches out and closes his fingers around England’s wrist, drags it up to splay England’s hand over his chest. “Here.”

His eyes are very blue, his lashes very long, fluttering. It has not been so long since they last shared a bed – England can remember lying awake in the blue-dark and watching France’s eyes move beneath their lids as he dreamed. He can remember falling asleep tucked beneath France’s chin, his hands curled into fists above France’s heart, hearing it _beat, beat, beat_.

It goes much faster now.

“Do you remember -” France says. And then he says, “what do you think? Of my revolution.”  
“It seems rather premature,” England says. “To call it a revolution. A rebellion, perhaps. An insurrection at most.”  
“What do you think of my _insurrection_.”  
“I think it is ridiculous.”  
“Of course you do,” France says. “But imagine how wonderful it is, to feel each of your people act as one. It is intoxicating.”  
“It is insanity.”  
“Perhaps,” France allows.  “I suppose your people are quite horrified. So are mine - they cannot understand what is happening in Paris, to the poor.”  
“What?” England says. France’s eyes are dazed; they clear, quite suddenly.  
“What?” he says. England says,  
“Ah, I see.” He can still feel France’s heart beating. He curls his fingers into a fist and pulls himself, gently, away. “You _are_ mad.”  
“Mad?” France says. “Honestly, mon cher Angleterre, I have never felt better. Would you have come with me? If I had asked one more time?”

England says nothing, watches him.

“Why did you leave? The morning after we made love, the very first time?”  
“It wasn’t making love, France. I don’t love you.”  
“Why did you leave?”  
“I didn’t know you were awake,” England says. France had had his eyes closed, his hair stuck to his cheek, one arm curved over the space England had slept in.

“Did it hurt?” France asks. He sets his wine glass down on the table, hard. “When America shot you?”  
“I can’t remember,” England says.   
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
“Yes you did. At least be honest about it. It’s hardly the worst thing you’ve done to me.”  
“Perhaps you’re right,” France says. England sets his wine glass down too. It is still full - the surface trembles. “But only because you – ”  
“France,” England says.

He used to be so angry - angrier than he has ever been, borne - most likely - from grief running bone-deep, deep into his soil, older than his King and his Empire, two blonde boys and their army from over the sea. “Don’t.”

France closes his eyes. England barely has to reach out; the pads of his fingers ghost along the inside of France’s wrist.   
“Angleterre,” France says. Outside, Paris looms. Paris in the summer and France is mad.   
“Do you trust me?” England asks. France is mad. He doesn’t say anything. “Close your eyes.”

France is mad.

He closes his eyes.

England leans up and in and puts his mouth very gently against France’s. France’s breath swells against his lips.

And then he steps back – France’s eyes are still closed – and he walks out the door, into Paris.

* * *

  **Austria, Winter, 1815**

England has never been in love.

That is not true, but it is easier if he pretends it is. He is as unfeeling as Wales says he is; as cold as Spain says he is; as wicked as America, apparently, says he is. It is easier to pretend that he is, because he wants to be and because, sometimes, he believes it.

He has never been in love, then, and if he has been, it was only for a moment. They were only exceptions – Spain’s eyes lovely in the candlelight, the rare curve of China’s smile, France –

France is - confusing. France always has been. France never stays, but he always comes back.

England isn’t in love with France.

It seems that half of Europe _has_ been in love with France at some point. Russia, Belgium, Spain, Prussia, Switzerland, Romania, Scotland, of course, which Ireland finds endlessly amusing. Scotland also takes the jokes better, which is irritating because England can’t help but lose his temper. Wales had said that it was fine, it was easier for Scotland because he had been over France for longer, but England was never – England doesn’t have to be _over_ France, because he never _loved –_

It seems that England is alone in his utter loathing.

After hundreds of years of open animosity, France and Spain have somehow turned around and become _friends_. Even Belgium, who has good reason to hate France as much as England, still speaks of him fondly. Russia and Romania can’t seem to work out how to stop idolising him. At least Switzerland doesn’t talk much about him, but, then Switzerland doesn’t talk much at all.

“It is because he is better now,” Belgium says. They are in a ballroom; she is in a gown, he is in a suit and the orchestra is playing a waltz behind them.   
“He’s exactly the same,” England mutters, darkly. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”  
“We’ve all made mistakes,” Belgium says. France is stood on the other side of the room, in conversation with Spain and Prussia. Now he tips his head back to laugh – England scowls.   
“I don’t trust him,” he says. Belgium sighs. She is probably bored of the conversation but she is one of the few people England is able to talk to about this. Wales insists on suggesting that England is still – was ever in _love –_

And Normandy’s gone and the Netherlands wouldn’t listen and Portugal would change the subject and Norway’s not here, and even if he were – well, England’s burned that bridge now.

Still.

“My apologies,” he says. Belgium turns kind eyes on him.  
“Nonsense,” she says. “Do you want to dance?”  
“Um,” England says. He thinks of them all _watching –_ “I might excuse myself, for a moment.”  
“Of course,” she says.

He slips out of the open doors at the back of the room, into the garden. It’s dark, and the air is chill, which suits England just fine because it means he might be alone. He wanders along the path and squints at the silhouettes of the shrubbery, cut into fantastical shapes, and then France says,  
“Bonjour, Angleterre.”

England squares his shoulders and turns.   
“What?” he snaps.  
“We have not spoken recently.”  
“Yes,” England says. “I was enjoying it, let’s not ruin it.”  
“Angleterre,” France says.  
“I don’t want to hear it,” England says.

France hesitates.   
“It’s a nice party,” he says, tentatively. England glares. “I was not sure you’d come.”  
“I have business to discuss with Austria,” England says. France smiles, small, down at his shoes. “ _What_?”  
“Nothing,” France says, spreading his hands. “But one might be forgiven for thinking you had forgotten there is more to life than work.”  
“Not to our lives,” England says. “The only reason we exist is to work.”

France makes a face. “How terribly dull.”  
“I don’t have time for this.”  
“Between all of your business meetings? Cher, you are at a ball.”  
“Actually,” England says. “I am in the garden.”  
“You have not changed at all,” France says. “I am glad.”  
“How would you know,” England spits, and then France’s words catch up. “I – ”

France smiles, looking pleased.   
“America sends his regards,” he says, softly, and England tastes copper, at the back of his throat.  
“Oh, fuck _you_ ,” he says, and makes to push past France but France catches his arm, and says –

“Wait. I didn’t mean.” His eyes flutter closed, open again – blue and blue and blue. “Congratulations are in order, I think.”  
“What are you talking about?” England snarls, and he shoves, hard, at France’s shoulders so he stumbles backwards, then again, until France seizes his wrist and England pulls it free and then France’s hands are on his chest, keeping him at a distance. He can feel it in his bones, the weight of it, the slide of his fingers in the fabric of England’s shirt. England pushes his hands away; his throat is tight.  
“I don’t want to fight you anymore,” France says, quietly. “Angleterre – _s’il te plait._ ”  
“Don’t touch me,” England says.   
“Sorry,” France says. He steps a bit closer and England can hear him breathing and his heart hurts, it’s thumping in his chest. France’s words are careful and his gaze is steady. “I don’t want it to have ended like that.”  
“It ended a long time ago,” England says. The words are thick.   
“You always look so sad,” France says, and he’s watching England like he’s afraid England might spook and bolt.  
“You don’t know anything,” England says.  
“Yes I do,” France says. “I know everything. Tell me if this is alright,” he says, and then his hand is sliding up the curve of England’s neck, his thumb brushes the line of his jaw.   
“France,” England says. He swallows.   
“Tell me if this is alright,” France says, and their foreheads are touching.  
“I,” says England.  
“I know,” says France.

Their mouths brush. England thinks of the wedding, the forest, and all the times since. His arms go up, around France’s neck and he stumbles closer, and opens his mouth for France’s tongue and France walks them backwards until England’s hit – something.  
“Ow,” says England.   
“Désolé,” says France, against England’s lips.

He pulls back, very suddenly. His eyes are wide and – scared, maybe, if that were possible, and his arms are braced over England’s head. It’s a tree, that they’re against. England’s heart is going like an army drum, so loud he can barely hear France say,  
“I am sorry. Please believe me, later.”

And then he’s stepping backwards and then he's gone.

* * *

 

**England, Winter, 1853**

When it’s France standing on the other side of the door, England shuts it in his face. He can hear France laughing on the other side of the wood, so he opens it again, intending to give France a piece of his mind and possibly a punch in the face.

Instead, France pushes his way in, shuts the door smartly behind him and looks around, interestedly, while unwinding his scarf and shaking the snow from his boots.

“What are you doing here?” England demands, folding his arms tight across his chest.   
“Cher, this is much nicer than that hovel you lived in in the 1600s.”  
“I don’t remember asking your opinion.”  
“I like this wallpaper,” says France. “Of course, mine is nicer. You will have to come and see it, oui?”  
“I would rather eat glass,” England snaps. He grabs the ends of France’s scarf and tries to wind it back round his neck. France cackles, grabbing England’s wrists and pulling him in for a hug.   
“I have come to spend Christmas with you, my grumpy Angleterre.”  
“Well I don’t want you to spend Christmas with me. Get out. Get off me.”  
“You are alone, oui?”  
“That’s none of your business. Anyway, I like being alone.”  
“I can tell,” says France, dryly. He bends down to take his shoes off. England shoves him.   
“Put them back on! You are not staying here!”  
“Cher, it’s _snowing_ , would you really make – Well, yes, you probably would, wouldn’t you?”  
“Don’t call me cher,” says England. “There’s a perfectly serviceable inn just down the road, go and take a room there.”

France wrinkles his nose. “Perfectly serviceable? By your standards I would doubtlessly be robbed the moment I stepped over the threshold. Murdered, maybe. And then how would you feel, having to fish me out of the Thames on Christmas Day?”

England shrugs. “I’ve had worse Christmases.”

France scowls. He isn’t going to leave – it’s quite clear – so England sighs, long-suffering, and says,  
“Oh, fine, you can stay one night.”  
“Merci,” France says, beaming smugly. He leans in to press a kiss to each of England’s cheeks and makes to repeat the motion, so England pushes him away again.   
“Do you want a drink?”  
“I suppose you’ll be having one, so I won’t be rude.”  
“Just say yes, you stupid frog,” England mutters. He turns and stalks into the parlour, uncorks the brandy and pours an ample amount for himself, and much less for France. France, of course, takes the one meant for England.   
“Where are your brothers tonight?” France asks, making himself comfortable in England's favourite chair. England scowls at him.   
“They’re busy.”  
“Busy?”  
“Scotland’s on his high horse somewhere. Ireland’s a fucking –” He drains his brandy to collect himself. “Wales is at home.”  
“Pity,” says France, into his glass. England growls at him.   
“Why are _you_ here?” he demands.   
“I am spreading Christmas cheer,” France says, blandly. England rolls his eyes. “And besides that, I thought it would be nice to spend some time with you. We see so little of each other, these days.”  
“Mm,” England says. France is watching him, inscrutable, but England suspects he’s realised, by now, that it is no accident their paths have not crossed for the best part of a century. He is many things, France, but he is not stupid.   
“You should come and visit more often,” France continues. “I have a perfectly serviceable inn in my neighbourhood, now.”

England resolutely does not smile.

“Have you heard from Amerique, recently?”  
“No,” England says, coldly. France – surprisingly – takes the hint, and doesn’t push the topic further.   
“What about Norway?” he asks, instead. England frowns at him, tilts his tumbler to collect the last few drops of brandy at the bottom of the glass.   
“No, not recently,” he says. “Have you?”  
“Not from Norway, but I have spoken to Denmark.”  
“Oh?”  
“The poor thing seems wretchedly unhappy.”  
“What a pity,” England says, flatly.   
“It is a pity,” France agrees. “It is always a pity, when two nations who have cared for each other for so long are forced apart by circumstance outside their control.”  
“A thousand years with Denmark. Poor Norway, I think we did the right thing,” England says. France drains his drink. His tone, when he next speaks, is decidedly milder.   
“When are you going back to the Crimea?”  
“February,” England says. “You?”  
“I might not go back,” France says. “I spent far too much time there this year. War is so bloody now. I almost miss swords, and shields, and chivalry.”  
“Not much of that in practice,” England remarks. France concedes this with a smile.  
“Do you remember being a hundred?” he asks.  
“No,” says England.   
“I remember blue skies. Golden fields. Am I romanticising, do you think?”  
“Yes,” says England. France laughs.   
“Perhaps you’re right. I can’t have been as happy as I remember being – but there was something magical about it. The whole world was new, and it was just me, and Normandy and Burgundy. And you.”  
“Hmmm,” England says. France runs a finger around the edge of his glass. Then he leans forward, conspiratorially.   
“Tell me honestly, because I do not trust Norway or Romania on this, but _Spain_ believes it – Can you really do magic?”

England mutters profanities into his drink and ignores France’s smile, soft in the firelight.

“Could you show me?” he asks.  
“Magic is not something I can just do. It can take me hours to get into the right frame of mind.”  
“Please?”  
“No.”  
“Please?”  
“No.”  
“Please?”  
“You don’t understand. It is a fragile balance that required years of practice to master.”

France’s mouth is curved upwards, in the smile that England has always privately thought was his nicest expression, perhaps for its rarity. He’s sure it’s the alcohol, and not the smile, that gets him to crouch beside the fireplace and get the light from the blaze to dance along his outstretched fingers.

France makes a soft sound of surprise. He slides from the chair to join England on the floor. His eyes are fixed on the flames now twisting around England’s wrist.   
“That is beautiful,” he whispers. England takes his hand and tips it, palm upwards.   
“Don’t move,” he says, and the flame slips from his hand to France’s. France’s eyes snap up to meet his.  
“It’s warm,” he says.  
“It’s fire, frog.”  
“I thought you were lying about magic to make yourself interesting.”  
“I don’t need to lie to make myself interesting,” England scoffs.   
“That’s true,” says France. He’s looking at the light in his hands, and maybe he misses the blush that England can feel rising up his neck. In an effort to control it, he reaches back to the fireplace for another tongue of flame. He wreathes it between his fingers. “England,” says France.

England cannot remember the last time France called him by his own name, and not some ridiculous French version or a cheap endearment. When he looks up, surprised, France is a lot closer. He tips the flame back onto England’s hand and watches it tremble in England’s palm, dancing around its twin. Then he puts his hands, still warm, against England’s cheeks and kisses him.

It’s a terrible angle. England can’t move, because he’s got living fire caught between them. He doesn’t really want to move, either, because it’s been years and years and –

And France still kisses like England remembers which is something he is oddly relieved about. He had been worrying – in a vague, subconscious, half-asleep sort of way – that France would have started to kiss like Spain, but he’s soft and sweet and gentle and there’s heat in his chest, too, soft and sweet and gentle, like he’s swallowed his own flames.

“I missed you,” France says, softly. England blinks his eyes open.  
“Oh no,” he says. “Don’t say that.” He closes his hands around the lights, and they go out against his skin.   
“Very sorry,” says France.   
“Was this your plan all along? To come along and get me drunk and seduce me?”  
“I didn’t get you drunk. You got yourself drunk.”  
“Were you planning on that?”  
“I was planning on spending Christmas Eve with you.”  
“You came all this way for Christmas Eve?”  
“I came all this way for Christmas Eve with you.”  
“God,” says England. He reaches out for France and France comes, willingly, following England backwards to brace his arms against the chair above England’s head. “Yes, alright, yes.”  
“Was that a yes?”  
“Shut up, bloody frog.”  
“You are so beautiful. I always forget.”  
“Shut up,” says England, breathlessly. France does.

* * *

 

**England, Spring, 1904.**  

He wakes up in his apartment in London.

He knows it’s London because of the grimy light coming in through the gap in the yellow curtains, and the glimpse of a church spire a little way in the distance, and the old world map pinned to the opposite wall.

It is different because France is sitting on the window-sill. He is sipping a cup of coffee from one of England’s mugs, bare feet propped up on the desk table, in a blue shirt and not much else.

He turns his face from the view outside, so he’s silhouetted by the sharp daylight and he says, in a voice thick with a smile,  
“Bonjour, cher.”  
“Shut up, stupid frog,” says England, irritably. He rolls over and pulls the duvet above his head to muffle the sound of France laughing. In a little while, he will come and put a mug of coffee on England’s side of the bed and England will drink it, begrudgingly, because it’s not tea (which is, of course, the reason France made it) and then France will snatch it away to kiss the taste of it out of Arthur’s mouth.

“Mmm-no,” says England, eventually, putting the hand on France’s chest to better use by pushing him away. “No, I have a meeting to be at, Monsieur, and you have something to do, I’m sure. Women to leer at.”  
“I know that accent is for my benefit, cher,” France muses. “It was not so long ago you spoke French like a second tongue.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Would you rather I leered at something else?”  
“Yes,” says England, shortly. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, permits France to press a kiss to his cheek and then says, “frog, are you wearing my shirt?”  
“Oui,” says France. “It brings out my eyes, does it not?”  
“Like the plague brought out the colour in your cheeks,” England mutters. He leans back over the bed to start unbuttoning the shirt. France starts to help him – bottom up, top down. Their hands meet in the middle. France wiggles his eyebrows. England snorts, shoves him backwards and pulls the shirt from his shoulders.     
“We ought to celebrate,” France tells him, pulling the duvet over himself instead, some sort of exercise in false modesty.   
“I’m sitting in on Cabinet meetings until Thursday,” England says. “And what would you have us celebrate?”

France looks hurt. It is hard to tell whether or not it is genuine.   
“Our alliance,” he says. England pulls a face at him.   
“We have never celebrated an alliance before,” he says. France’s mouth twitches, amusedly.  
“No?”  
“Well,” England says. “But that’s beside the point.”  
“It was your point, cher.”  
“It is hardly a situation to celebrate,” England says. “When it is a precaution for the inevitable war.”  
“Mon dieu,” France says, pressing a hand to the duvet above his chest. “I always forget how cheerful and optimistic you can be.”

England does not smile. He makes a concentrated effort not to, but France’s laugh is delighted, so he can’t have been that successful.

“Kiss me and I’ll stop,” France says. His arms snake out of the duvet and slide around England’s waist. He presses a kiss to England’s shoulder. England pretends to consider it.   
“No,” he says. “You wouldn’t stop.”  
“Kiss me anyway?”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because I need to go to work,” England says, and he pats France’s hands where they’re locked across his stomach. “Let go.”  
“But I see so _little_ of you these days, ange.”  
“Don’t call me that.”  
“I see _so little_ of you,” France repeats. “Angleterre, _so little,_ because you are small.”  
“I will put arsenic in your coffee,” England says.   
“Kiss me,” France says.

England does, because he knows that France will make a surprised sound against his lips and, yes, there it is. He pushes his fingers through France’s hair, eases him backwards and then, when France’s grip is loose enough to escape from, he does.

France frowns at him from the pillow.

“You are cruel to me,” he says. England rolls his eyes.   
“I will meet you for lunch,” he says, and he leaves the room before he says something stupid. 

* * *

 

**France, Autumn, 1918**

The world on its knees.

The hall had been quiet, this morning, but England does not want to think about it.

He does not want to think about anything, but he cannot help it.

He has seen so many of them die, the people he grew up with, back when they thought themselves glorious and fearless. Austria had seemed so small in his wheelchair, this morning. Prussia’s hand had shaken so badly he couldn’t hold the pen.

He had spent one day, at the beginning of the war, sat on the sand with France. Before that, they had been in a tiny chapel at the top of a hill – England can see it now, if he closes his eyes – the wooden pews, the white walls, the crucifix above the altar and the rows of young men in uniform, their voices raised with the hymns. England had stood among them in the trenches and one by one they had been killed.

He does not want to think about it.

He takes out a cigarette and a match to light it with, only his hand is shaking now, too, and it won’t catch. Then there are hands on his, steady and scarred, and France says,  
“Here.”

The smoke fills his lungs and England shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, France has sat beside him. He is in his civvies, grey wool trousers and a blue shirt. He had been in his uniform that morning, stood impassive between England and Russia on one side of the table and the back of his hand had pressed firmly against England’s the whole time.

England watches him and puffs at his cigarette. Once upon a time, they had been children and they had worn armour and hurt each other and kissed each other and three years ago France had sunk into the mud beside him and died.

France is watching him, too. England doesn’t smile but he does raise his eyebrows and France’s mouth twitches. Once upon a time, he had brothers but they were both gone now and it is a good thing, really, that Normandy had never known a war like that.

England’s own brothers had stood behind him, that morning. Ireland’s arm is in a sling, still, and Scotland had spent three months blind in 1916, and, a year before, Wales had died beside England again, with a bullet in his chest.

“We are old,” France says. England breathes in and expels smoke. “I am,” France says, and then he stops, huffs a laugh, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I am tired.”

England does smile at that.

“Do you remember being young,” France asks. He shakes his head. “Don’t answer that.” His eyes flutter closed. He tilts his head back against the chair. “I am very tired, Angleterre.”

France is not looking, so England lets himself mourn, for a moment, quietly, with the tears hot behind his eyes. He – He aches, for a past that is long dead, running through fields of golden wheat with his brothers, in the pools of warm sunlight and the long shadows at night. He has seen so many people die, and yet here he is, sat by an open window with France as the world tries to remember how to start again.

He nixes his cigarette with his fingers, drops the butt into the ashtray on the table and reaches across for France’s hand. France does not open his eyes, but he squeezes England’s fingers tight.

* * *

 

**England, Winter, 1931**

Two hours ago, America had been banging out music on England’s old piano.

Now, he is passed out on England’s sofa, with his head in the crook of his arm. Northern Ireland is curled up beside him, snuffling. Wales and Scotland and Canada have all gone to bed and it is just England and France sat up in the kitchen with the electric light and milky tea. France is doodling over England’s half-finished crossword and England is reading.

England is pretending to read, anyway; he is on the right side of tipsy and there is nothing wrong, _really_ , with admiring the slant of France’s shoulders and the way his wrist moves when he twists the pencil.

His hair is long again, now; he’d cut it during the war and then he’d kept it short for years and England doesn’t know why, he never asked.

“Do you think he is in love with Russia?” France asks. He is speaking English and his vowels are loose and lovely.   
“I think he thinks he is,” England says.  
“That is,” France says, and then he pauses. The pencil doesn’t still, goes whispering across the newsprint and then France says, “That is unfortunate.”  
“Unfortunate?”  
“It is difficult,” France says. He looks up. “Don’t you think?”

England stares at him. He thinks about the eighteenth century, about fighting France and fucking him and never being allowed to say, or think, about _love_ but he never wanted to, anyway, because that was an easy way to get hurt.

France shrugs. “Things are different now, I suppose.”

America and Russia do not need swords, now. It takes them minutes to speak to each other, oceans apart, and it takes them hours to get to each other, through the air. There are photographs. There is no time to think and reconsider. 

“I suppose America can’t drink,” England says. France cackles. He sits back and stretches until his spine pops. England makes a face.   
“That is true,” France says. “God help him. I should not last five months without alcohol.”  
“You should not last five minutes,” England says. France raises an eyebrow.  
“You want to have this argument?” he says. “You will not win it.”

England bites a grin, as sarcastic as he can make it, and France laughs again. He reaches over the table to take England’s hand and he squeezes, tight.   
“I am going to bed,” he says. “ _Bonne nuit, Angleterre_.”  
“Good night,” England says. He gets up to rinse out his mug. Upstairs, he can hear someone – Wales? – coughing.   
“Do you want me to wake Northern Ireland?” France asks, from the doorway.  
“No, that’s alright,” England says. He reaches for the tea towel. “I’ll do it, when I go up.”  
“Alright,” France says. “Bonne nuit.”

He turns the light out when he leaves, the bastard.

England stands by the sink for a little while longer, watches the stars out the window and the lights behind the curtains in the block of flats opposite. The lights are brighter, these days; the stars are not. When he visited America, in New York, three years ago, he had barely been able to make them out.

He passes the table on the way to the door, to wake Northern Ireland and probably America, and France has left the newspaper out, though he took the pencil with him. England’s hand twitches – he reaches for it, tugs it closer. He thinks, for a moment, that France has drawn flowers but then he sees that they are flames, and then he sees that they are being held, two sets of hands, fingertips touching.

England picks it up, smooths across the fold and tucks it under his arm. There is no point in leaving it to be found in the morning; Scotland will scoff and Norn will ask questions and Wales will say _that’s pretty_ and give England significant looks over the teapot.

* * *

**France, Summer, 1940**

“ _What are you doing_?” England screams. He has to scream, to be heard, but his heart is lodged in his throat and he doesn’t think he’s capable of anything else, anymore. France turns. He’s helping soldiers into a tiny fishing boat, which he’s been doing for hours although England told him to get into a boat and _go –_   
“You need to leave!” England says. The wind is roaring in his ears and the tide is crashing around his feet; he’s soaked to his knees and his hair is stiff with salt and it’s prickling in the scratches on his forehead and he can see America yelling orders further up the beach, his arms windmilling, too far away to be heard.  
“No,” France says.   
“ _France_ – ” England says.

France takes hold of his arm, above the elbow – England winces; he was struck by a bayonet a few months ago and he isn’t healing as fast as he used to. France’s fingers loosen immediately, slide down the torn fabric of his uniform sleeve and bunch at his wrist. He drags him off, slightly, although there are so many people on the beach that it is impossible to be alone.   
“I am not going,” France says. The wind is roaring and the tide is crashing and England can only hear France. He sees it, briefly, the world without him.   
“Yes you are,” he says, and France smiles, shakes his head.  
“No,” he says. “Ange, you must understand – ”  
“I don’t understand,” England says. “Where do you think you’ll go?”  
“I can’t tell you that.”  
“France.”  
“Somewhere in the vicinity.” His smile broadens. England swallows past the pain in his throat and says,   
“Don’t be clever.”  
“How can you ask me to change?”  
“Don’t make jokes," England says. "You have to leave.”  
“I must. You must understand - I cannot be away from my people. Not when they need me most.”  
“But,” England says, and then he completes the sentence in his head - _I need you_. He bites down on it. “But you’ll be taken.”  
“Yes,” France agrees. “Don’t worry, cher, I won’t tell them a thing.”  
“What if they hurt you?”  
“Would you care?”

His gaze is knife-sharp. England says, quietly,  
“Don’t say that. You know I do.”

The tension bleeds slowly out of France’s shoulders. He inclines his head, a little, and he looks away. England says,  
“France, _please_ – ”  
“I would choose you every time,” France says. “In every other situation.”

America is coming towards them, down the beach. He stops by a lifeboat overcrowded with men, none of whom can be over nineteen. England doesn’t want to hear this – he’s spent a long time carefully not hearing this, and he resents France making it so obvious so suddenly.   
“You are choosing,” he says.  
“Please don’t make this harder.”  
“Your resistance need you - don’t you think you can do more here? Where you are free?”  
“My resistance has you,” France says, and he lets go of England’s wrist. Around them, the world catches up; the wind and the tide and the salt. “They are in good hands. I cannot do enough for my people without being with them. Where I belong. Don’t look at me like that.”  
“Don’t do this,” England says. “Don’t -”  
“If you were in my position,” France says. “And I pray that never happens. You would do the same.”

There isn’t anything England can say to that. France is quite right - France is often right, except when he is wrong, which England much prefers. It seems they are both waiting for him to come out and say that it is him who needs – who wants France to stay.

He has no idea how to form the words.

France comes closer. He looks pitying, which is terrible - England barely has time to register the mortification of it before France has put his arms around England’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug. It is easy to see how thin France has become, how frail – it must have been a few months ago that England had stripped the shirt off him, had been able to trace gentle fingers across the shadows of his rib cage.

“Do you trust me?” France asks. The sun had been in his eyes, that morning, when they woke.  
“France,” England says. His voice rises - it’s not quite a plea, but it’s getting there, at the thought of this war stretching on, forever, and France on the other side of the sea.   
“Do you trust me?”

England doesn’t trust anybody - he never has. France smiles - it’s tired, it sits oddly on his face. He steps forward and there are people pressing in against them on all sides and then he presses a kiss to England’s forehead. “Close your eyes,” he says. England stares at him, a beat – commits him to memory – the way his hair curls around his face, the shape of his eyes, the arch of his lips. He closes his eyes.

France kisses him, softly, quickly - says, “close your eyes”, although England’s already done so - and kisses him again, cards his clever fingers through England’s hair before pulling away.

England keeps his eyes closed, tightly. Behind his lids France watches him from the nineteenth century, guarded affability, from the seventeenth century, fond. 

He does not see France leave, but when he opens his eyes, France has gone.

* * *

**England, Spring, 1994.**

After breakfast, England picks up the bag he’d half packed two days ago, emptied out yesterday, and spent the early hours of the morning hastily filling up again.

He hadn’t told France he was coming. He still isn’t sure he is. He gets off the bus two stops down the road, then hails a taxi.

He hadn’t told France he was coming, but then he hadn’t told France that he was coming in 1588 and France had been at the harbour anyway, waiting for him.

He gets out at Waterloo. He, personally, thinks it’s incredibly amusing, that the train to France now leaves from Waterloo. He can imagine France’s face, his nose wrinkled disdainfully. He has always managed to look down at England. England never managed to catch those two inches. He doesn’t mind as much as he used to.

They will put today in history books. They will put the Entente-Cordiale in history books, 1941 and 1815 and 1066. They should let England write history books. He thinks he’d be good at it. (He can imagine France’s face in response to this, too, the amused upturn of his mouth.)

If England steps out into a French station, France will know exactly what it means and England has spent so very long carefully avoiding that.

He cannot count the number of times he and France have fallen into bed after battles, angry and biting and clawing and snapping. France is a destructive tendency himself, composed of a million of them - smoke and wine and sex. Somehow, when he puts his hands on England’s waist, it does not burn away the anger anymore. Somewhere along the way, maybe in the trenches or maybe afterwards, in that dark little room in Paris, France’s kisses turned sweet again, gentle along the lines of England’s jaw, his neck, his arms.

Actually, France became a lot more than just sex. He took to kissing England’s cheek when he leaves him, his forehead in the morning, his hair whenever England passed by, laundry basket on hip. They _hold hands_ , between them on the sofa. England reads the newspaper aloud while France makes breakfast - he’s very particular about breakfast, France, very particular about all meals, actually. France puts his arm around England’s waist and catches him before he stumbles, the day the dollar takes over. England puts his arms around France and sits behind him on the bed as he does paperwork, everything scattered and disorderly and France’s hair rumpled, a mess.

Would it be worse if he steps out into a French station and France isn’t there? Possibly, because it would mean travelling back, alone, and Wales making sympathetic noises and Scotland’s tangible _I told you so_ and –

Half the world has been in love with France at some point. Russia, China, Turkey, Spain, Prussia, Switzerland, Romania, India, Scotland, of course. More than half the world has slept with France, at some point. Not for a while, though, because France and England have somehow managed to be France-and-England for years, now, and America still makes faces, sometimes, and Spain rolls his eyes but it’s different. It’s not just smoke and wine and sex. Wales calls it _sweet_ and Canada says _I’m glad you’re both happy_ and America makes vomiting noises and gives England a hug and –

When the train arrives at the station, England gets off because it is worth the risk.

France isn’t there.

There are journalists and formalities and a press of people craning their necks outside the gate and a hive of conversation, French and English, the same mangled speech patterns that France and England have fallen into themselves after several hundred years but no France.

He insists on carrying his own bag, ducks out of the way of the cameras and –

There he is.

He is leaning against a pillar, in a long coat with his hair tied back, a few strands curling loose around his face and he’s looking straight at England, smiling. He begins to move forward when England stops.   
“I knew you’d come,” he says.  
“I don’t know how,” says England. “I didn’t.”

France laughs, takes England’s bag from him and takes England’s hand in his.   
“You’ll like my new apartment,” he says. “It’s got wonderful views.”  
“Of Paris?” England says, sceptically, happily.  
“Angleterre, my uncivilised little barbarian. The views of Paris are the only views worth having.” He smiles down at England, who’s already smiling up at him. “Maybe we should try again. I could sweep you off your feet.”  
“That won’t be necessary,” says England.

It must have rained in Paris last night too, because there are still puddles on the ground but the sun is out now and it’s caught on the city’s spires and corners, turning everything silver to gold. On the other side of the street, a man is playing Charles Trenet on the accordion - England always liked that song, for one of France’s; it reminds him still of smoky cafes and France in the kitchen during the war, the last war, the soft words in the darkness.

France uses his free hand to point down one end of the road.  
“We could get a cab,” he says. “I will pay, mon cher.”  
“Or,” England says, because it is a nice day and it promises to get nicer and because France is holding his hand and England can’t agree with everything he says today, “we could walk.”  
“Oui,” France agrees. “It is such a lovely day, let us walk. This way, I think, I shall take you the prettiest route - the prettiest route for mon bel ange.”  
“There’s no need to get emotional,” England says, and he isn’t really surprised when France barks with delighted laughter and swings them both round to sweep England off his feet and kiss him. It is France, he supposes, and they are _in France_ and France has always gotten a little mad in the springtime.   
“There is every need,” France says, eventually, looking a little flustered and very happy and England wouldn’t mind stopping to kiss him again - they have all the time in the world, after all. Instead, he lets France pull him a little closer and he wonders, absently, how long it is they have been walking in step.   
“Do you remember the fifteen hundreds?”  
“I do.”  
“Do you remember when you stole Calais from me?”  
“You stole Calais first.”  
“I was lying in the tent, I was bleeding, and you were there. Do you remember that?”  
“Mon cher,” says France, and there is a definite twinkle in his eye. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”  
“You bastard,” England says, half-heartedly. France kisses the top of his head and England squeezes his hand.   
“Do you remember the sixteenth century?”  
“I do.”  
“When I asked you to follow me to France.”  
“And I said it would be horribly impractical and you were very upset and you wouldn’t speak to me for months and the next time you saw me you tried to run me through with my own sword.”  
“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask,” says France. He stops them again to draw England close and kiss his forehead. “I suppose it did work, after all. You’re here right now.”  
“Yes,” England says, dryly. “It only took four hundred years.”  
“Four hundred years to have you here with me in Paris on this beautiful day? Now, if I was human I might say it was worth it.”  
“It’s a good thing you’re not then,” England says. The sun is right in his eyes and he has to squint to make France out but it’s not irritating enough, yet, to make it any easier to stop smiling. “That would be a ridiculous thing to say.”

France laughs. 

"And yet here we are," he says. "And I love you."

England sighs. He reaches up to pull France down to kiss him - it is a terrible shame he never made those two inches in height.   
“I love you too,” he says. “I suppose.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1066 - the Norman invasion of England  
> 1110 - during the Crusades  
> 1152 - still during the Crusades; Henry II of England's marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine  
> 1203 - a year in the Anglo-French war  
> 1259 - at the end of a different, but related, Anglo-French war, which the French won and thus regained a lot of England's territory on the Continent, including Normandy  
> 1338 - a year in the Hundred Years War; the Auld Alliance had been in place since 1295  
> 1356 - another year in the Hundred Years War  
> 1431 - and another year in the Hundred Years War; after the execution of Jeanne d'Arc  
> 1469 - I don't think there is any good reason for England to be visiting France at this point but... Normandy was dissolved on the 9th November, when the ducal ring was put on an anvil and smashed because the French Kings knew how to make a point  
> 1501 - the marriage of the Spanish Catalina d'Aragón to the then Prince of England, Arthur  
> 1558 - during the war between Spain (and England) and France; French armies recaptured Calais after over 150 years of English control  
> 1588 - the Spanish Armada  
> 1650 - during the English Civil War; Charles I was executed in 1649  
> 1688 - set after the Glorious Revolution, where the Dutch Prince William and his wife Mary became King and Queen of England and Wales  
> 1712 - set during the signing of the Treaty of Utrecht, which temporarily ended the War of the Spanish Succession (England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland had been formally united as the United Kingdom in 1707)  
> 1748 - set after the signing of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, which ended the War of the Austrian Succession  
> 1781 - a year during the American Revolution   
> 1790 - a year in the French Revolution  
> 1815 - set between the signing of the Treaty of Vienna, which ended the Napoleonic Wars, and the Hundred Days, when Napoleon reclaimed the French throne for a hundred days, before being decisively defeated at the Battle of Waterloo  
> 1853 - a year during the Crimean War  
> 1904 - set after the signing of the Entente-Cordiale  
> 1918 - set after the Armistice which ended World War One  
> 1931 - during Prohibition in America  
> 1940 - the Evacuation of Dunkirk  
> 1994 - the Eurotunnel opens, connecting the British Isles to the Continent, London to Paris.


End file.
